


Every Promised Land

by whimsicule



Series: Avengers [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Avengers AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marvel Universe, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, References to Torture, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 73,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: Liam takes Harry’s silence as his cue to continue. “He’s not lucid, Cap. You said it yourself, that he wasn’t himself, that he was slipping away.” He looks like he wants to step closer to Harry, perhaps comfort him in some way, but he stays put, hesitates for a moment before parting his lips again. “Maybe HYDRA messed him up so much that there’s just no coming back for him.”or: Harry is still Captain America, Louis is still the love of his life, but that doesn’t stop everything from falling apart.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> in an ideal world, this thing would be finished now. at least i was delusional enough to believe that - on top of everything else - i would have plenty of time to write and finish this within the summer months. i still hope, and i do have the first couple of chapters finished, but we'll just have to see how it goes, and i want to be honest. i will do my best to keep at it and update regularly, and usually, i do work better with a bit of pressure. something i should also add: the chapter count is optimistic. knowing myself, it will most likely increase a little. 
> 
> anyway. this is the sequel to 'the dead of july' that i promised (and it won't make any sense to you if you have not read 'the dead of july' first), but i am pretty sure it is not the sequel that you guys wanted, which brings me to the second thing i need to make clear: if you came here for fluff, you will not find it. i understand that 'the dead of july' was quite the ride and that many people probably wanted the sequel to be more light-hearted, but i wouldn't be me without pumping the maximum amount of drama and angst into whatever i write. 
> 
> this picks up a few months after chapter 9 of 'the dead of july', and because i did not want this to turn into some lukewarm but generally blah second part, i fleshed it out in a way that kind of nullifies the epilogue that finished off 'the dead of july'. so it's best if you just forget it exists. or rather, do not expect the epilogue to make a lot of sense in light of the sequel.
> 
> another thing i want to stress before letting you guys dive in: zayn is not in this much, which has everything to do with plot and nothing to do with his exit from the band or my personal feelings regarding him.
> 
> and last but not least, please do keep the concept of the 'subjective narrator' in mind...
> 
> thanks, as always, go to geeb, who beta'd this like a champ, and dimples, who acted as test reader and feedback generator and unfortunate receiver of my endless plot-regarding ramblings.
> 
> and now, without further ado: enjoy!
> 
>  **WARNINGS**  for this chapter: non-graphic description of violence, non-graphic/off-screen minor character death, mention of PTSD and torture. additionally, there is a short section that might read as potential consent issues to some, and it is addressed and discussed by the narrator as such. however, those consent issues will be revealed to be non-existent at a later stage. 
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags. italics are flashbacks.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:**  the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

 

 

“I know. I was there. I saw the great void in your soul, and you saw mine.” 

**Sebastian Faulks, _Birdsong_**

****

***

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**CHAPTER I.**

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****

Liam lays the data stick on the table. It settles on the smooth wooden surface without a sound, catching the light streaming in through the windows from the late afternoon sun slowly sinking lower and lower above the Manhattan skyline. Once empty, he shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket, eyes heavy with the weight of all the things that are hidden within this flimsy, fragile piece of technology. 

Harry is surprised it doesn’t put a dent in the table. 

This moment just feels paradoxically insignificant considering what Harry believes to be contained within the small device, with crumbs from breakfast still littering the tabletop and the dishwasher gurgling in the background. He keeps his hands folded in front of him, not reaching out despite his fingers twitching to do so, and his eyes flicker to the left where Louis is sitting quietly, staring down into his coffee cup. He’s not watching, seems to be lost in thought, but Harry doesn’t doubt that Louis knows exactly what’s going on. 

“You can keep this copy,” Liam says after a prolonged silence. “It’s sanctioned by SHIELD, so it’s not – I mean, they’ve taken out what they consider classified information, but there’s still enough to…” He trails off, gaze shifting to Louis briefly before clearing his throat. “I’m sure it will answer some questions. Maybe help with, you know.” 

Harry doesn’t know. It’s something that’s been circling in his head since Liam had given him a brief rundown of what kind of files they’d recovered from the HYDRA base that has since been destroyed. It’s taken SHIELD a few months to decrypt and filter all of it, since they’d decided to keep Liam away until they’d gotten an overview themselves. Harry doesn’t doubt that Cowell wants to keep all of them away from the bulk of what is undoubtedly highly incriminating material, which can’t fall into the wrong hands. Taking their last few missions into account, it’s become very clear that Cowell operates under a ‘the fewer people know the better’ mantra. 

Not that Harry can blame him. He guesses Cowell wouldn’t even trust his own mother. 

Everything aside, he knows Liam offered them JARVIS’s help in return for whatever files are Louis’ or those that are tied to him. And according to Liam – it’s not pretty. Which was to be expected from the small fraction of documents Zayn had uncovered all those months ago, Harry knows, but now it’s all lying there in front of him in the shape of an inconspicuous USB stick. 

And Harry doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Suddenly, a chair screeches as it’s pushed backwards, but Louis doesn’t make another sound as he rises, eyes still downcast and posture strung tight. He’s out of the kitchen with a few quick strides and Harry can only guess that he crosses the living room just as rapidly. A few seconds later, their bedroom door slams shut. 

Liam winces. Harry can only sigh. 

“How are you guys doing?” Liam asks after a beat, naturally referring to them as a unit now, even though Harry hasn’t felt particularly close to Louis in the last couple of days. 

He shrugs and runs a weary hand across his face, lingering at his temple and letting his fingers massage the delicate spot. He doesn’t get actual headaches anymore unless someone hits him over the head with a sledgehammer, but there’s still a persistent phantom ache that’s wearing him and his patience thin. 

“I’m not really sure,“ he replies, meeting Liam’s worried gaze. “I thought it was going well. Last month was good, steady progress. He was remembering more and more and he was _talking_ about it, but now it’s like someone’s flipped a switch and he’s shutting me out.” 

“Maybe he remembered something…not so good,” Liam suggests gravely, drawing his brows together. 

“Maybe,” Harry mulls. He’s thought of that, of course. Most of the returning memories aren’t good ones and Louis hadn’t been willing to share them at first, but he’d opened up minimally, not going into specifics but letting Harry in a little. He’d told him about a defected KGB agent who’d tried to make it across the Ukrainian border to smuggle stolen files into Slovakia and beyond, his family in tow, before Louis had stopped them all; that he still remembers what the daughter had been wearing and the color of the wife’s hair before he’d put a bullet in their heads. 

It’s not easy for Harry to digest. He can’t even imagine what Louis must be feeling. 

“What’s Caroline saying?” Liam yanks him out of his thoughts, pulling back a chair and sinking down, evidently keen on staying and talking this over like he knows how hard Harry is fighting to refrain from running after Louis. 

That’s another thing that’s been even harder than expected – staying away. All Harry wants is to be close to Louis again and although he knows that he can’t push it, it’s almost physically painful to let him out of his sight. Since Winston’s death he and Louis have been apart three agonising weeks. In the summer, SHIELD had deemed Louis fit for field missions under Zayn’s supervision in spite of Harry’s protests, so that’s something he’s been struggling to get used to.

“The usual. That I can’t force it. Which, for the record, I’m not,” Harry feels the need to say. He knows what Caroline thinks, what Liam and Niall and especially Zayn think of the entire situation, but he doubts they know what it’s like. “It’s just hard.” 

It’s harder than he initially expected, is the thing, and far from a straightforward, linear journey where things gradually improve now that they’ve put the worst behind them – now that they’ve found each other again. He might be a supersoldier, but Harry is also really fucking human and seeing Louis take two steps forward and then stumble twenty steps back just moments later is tearing him apart. 

Liam gives him a sympathetic smile and doesn’t say anything. Harry doesn’t know what else to say, either. It’s hard. That’s just how it is, and it’s something they all have to deal with, one way or another. But they’re a team, and Louis is part of that team now, and they’ve fared well looking after each other and accepting everyone’s baggage, regardless of what it is. 

Harry clears his throat awkwardly, eyes flittering back to the USB stick momentarily before setting on Liam, who is now sitting down on the chair Louis vacated just moments ago.

“When are you due back in LA?” he asks just to keep the conversation going. It’s the coward’s way out, Harry is very much aware, but he needs a bit of time to get himself back in order before inevitably confronting Louis about whatever is going on. 

“Not for a while,” Liam replies. “I can work from here just as well, and they don’t need me present to sign anything either.” He says it casually, like that’s all there is to it, but they’ve all been witness to those few weeks in the summer when Liam worked himself into a frenzy just to avoid the confrontation with reality. 

“Do you think that’s a sustainable strategy?” Harry knows Liam doesn’t want to talk about it. But he also wonders if that’s even something that’s crossed his mind, given how Liam has barely paused to take a calm breath in the last few months. “Her getting LA and you New York?” 

“It’s not like that,” Liam shrugs off expectedly. “It’s just…easier. For now.” 

“Is a breakup supposed to be –“ 

“It’s not a breakup!” Liam’s eyes are wide, like he didn’t anticipate his own outburst. “I mean…it’s not,” he adds, significantly quieter. “Really. We’re taking a break. She needs a break. Which is understandable. I get it. Dating Iron Man is – well. I don’t know. I don’t think I would handle it well if my significant other were to throw themselves into life-threatening situations all the time.” He runs a hand through his hair. Remnants of dried motor oil are speckled around his knuckles, a few errant, darker drops close to his elbow. “I don’t know how you guys do it.” 

Harry doesn’t have an answer for that either. His mind flickers back to those few weeks in winter, when Niall had been an absolute mess, only a shadow of himself because of his worry for Zayn and his frustration with his inability to do anything about it. And of course, Harry remembers the months after Louis had left the tower. But even more than that, he still remembers so vividly how he’d felt every single time the Howling Commandoes had walked towards what they – at that time – believed might very well be their last mission. And he can still recall every fist fight Louis got in back in Brooklyn, when the war that would change their lives forever hadn’t even been a possibility. 

“It’s not easy,” Harry starts, “and it never got easier, but I guess…I guess you just have to understand, at some point, that they can fend for themselves. You just have to trust them and their abilities.”

“Do you?” Liam asks. “Trust Louis, I mean.” 

Harry hesitates. He doesn’t mean to, and for a split second, he’s not even aware that he hesitates. But there is a very short but significant pause that shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t have to hesitate when Liam asks him if he trusts Louis. But Harry does, and it sends a zing of shock down his spine that delays his answer even more. Liam’s eyebrows draw together just minimally, and Harry is desperate to assure him, because he trusts Louis, of course he does, and yet his throat is dry and not a single word leaves his lips. 

He shouldn’t feel relieved when a crash echoes through the living room, followed by a string of hearty curses, and a red-faced Niall appears in the doorway, a metaphoric set of storm clouds collected over his head. But it cuts through the awkward tension in the room, at least.

“Why the _fuck_ ,” Niall begins with bite, “are there so many fucking boxes in the living room?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he makes his way to the fridge with a clearly exaggerated limp. 

“I had a few things shipped over from Cali,” Liam tells him. “Sorry, I thought you were a super agent with super reflexes.” 

Niall rummages through the fridge before pulling out a bottle of Vitamin Water. Harry doesn’t understand how he can drink that stuff. 

“Fuck you,” he gripes, sending Liam an unimpressed look, clearly in a foul mood. This day is turning out to be quite something. “ _Cali_. Eurgh. Next thing you’ll be talking about how totes awesome feng shui is.” 

“I do have a koi pond…” Liam ponders as Niall pulls out an empty chair and lets himself drop onto it heavily, with a drawn-out groan. “Does that count as feng shui?” 

Before they can go off on a tangent like they’re prone to do, Harry takes in Niall’s appearance – pale, dark circles under his eyes, running gear – that, coupled with his bad mood, clearly shows that something is going on. Something other than a couple of boxes in the communal living room. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, but instead of replying, Niall unscrews the cap of his drink and chugs it back with so much vigor that a droplet escapes and runs down from the corner of his mouth to his chin before dropping down onto the grey thermal shirt that already shows plenty of wet patches. He must’ve really tired himself out if he’s sweating through his gear like that. 

It’s not before more than half the sweetened water is gone that Niall lowers the bottle and sets it down on the table. The USB stick wobbles slightly, turning Harry’s stomach before he shakes himself out of it to focus on Niall. 

Light falls onto their super archer’s face in a way that accentuates the lines of worry on his forehead and around his mouth. His hair is darker than Harry has ever seen it, more roots than bleach, and it seems less like a deliberate decision and more a side effect of whatever it is that’s concerning him. 

Niall sighs wearily. “I can’t reach Zayn,” he tells them, which…surprises Harry. Because that’s practically always the case. He’s not exactly aware of Zayn’s schedule or missions, and he’s come to learn that his absence or presence can never be anticipated. Naturally, he knows that Niall’s relationship to him is very different and significantly closer, but Harry always assumed that – if not on mission with him – Niall was not in contact with him, if only for the logical reason that it might jeopardise the operation. 

“Right,” Liam speaks up first, looking as taken aback as Harry. “Is that not…to be expected?” 

Niall lowers his eyes. “Usually, yes – but…” He hesitates, chews on his lip. Reaches for the bottle and twists the cap to the right, and then to the left, again and again. He seems genuinely troubled. 

“But what?” Harry leans forward, elbows coming to rest on the even table surface. “What makes you think there’s something wrong? Did he say when he would be back?” 

“Not exactly,” Niall concedes. “But I just – I just think something’s not right.” A lengthy pause follows, neither Harry nor Liam knowing how to respond, as Niall seems to mull things over in his head. Outside, the sun has sunk low enough to be mostly hidden behind the ocean of skyscrapers stretching up towards a darkening sky. “I mean,” he eventually continues, “he didn’t give off the vibe that he was seeing Cowell for anything but a debrief of a previous mission.” 

“Maybe it was urgent,” Liam suggests. 

Niall shakes his head. “Yeah, but – still. It just doesn’t sit right with me. All of it. I can’t say why exactly, but I just have this gut feeling that something is going on.” 

Harry gets it; gets the gravity of that feeling and the implications. “And you can usually trust your gut.” 

“Yeah,” Niall breathes, hands freezing around the bottle and fingers tensing up, knuckles starting to protrude. It’s only now that Harry sees that half of them are bruised, a few split open, most likely from Niall going at the punching bags down in their gym like a maniac. 

Harry can’t judge the situation or offer any helpful input. Niall has been with SHIELD for longer than all of them, and if he deems something fishy, then it’s probably best to trust his judgment. But at the same time, there isn’t anything they can do at this point, which is exactly why Niall’s knuckles look the way they do. Unsurprisingly, none of them have healthy coping mechanisms. 

And Niall also knows Zayn better than all of them put together. And if he can’t reach Zayn, then there are only two options. Either Zayn doesn’t want to be reached or found, or…Harry isn’t sure he wants to consider the second option. Zayn had been fine tracking a semi-amnesiac Louis through Russia and Syria, so it’s better for all of them if that is not the case. 

Liam lets out a breath, sounding like he’s held it in for a while. “Is there anything we can do? To find out?”

Niall shakes his head, resigned. “No,” he breathes, “not right now. Cowell tells most people jack shit anyway, but when it comes to what he gets Zayn to do…there’s no way to find out. He’s not going to say anything, so we can’t find out if Zayn is even gone because of SHIELD!”

“I could –” 

“What, Payno?” Niall cuts him off immediately. “Let JARVIS hack into the servers?” He scoffs, and Liam looks mildly offended for a second. “I’m sure you get through all their security barriers in a blink, but trust me, there are plenty of things not in their database. For good reason.”

It silences Liam, and it silences Harry as well. They both know what Niall is implying, and not without reason. Harry has always had trouble trusting Cowell, trouble trusting his motives, trouble trusting that his morals were still in the right spot, even after decades in the intelligence business. He knows Liam feels the same, and Niall has been in the business longer than both of them put together. And even though Niall’s life until becoming an Avenger, becoming a SHIELD agent even, is still a mystery to Harry, he’s pretty sure that he’s got even more reason to consider Cowell a…nuanced character. 

Their silence seems to amuse Niall. “Don’t look so shocked, you two. You don’t stay on top of an organization like SHIELD by doing everything by the book.” 

“I’m not shocked,” Harry tells him, because he’s not. He’d like to be, very much, but if there’s one thing he’s learned after coming back to life, it’s that the world is a far messier, more complicated place than it was when he plummeted into the Arctic Ocean. “But it makes things more difficult than they need to be.” 

“You’re telling me,” Niall huffs. “If Zayn’s missions were anything but whispers in dark hallways, at least I’d have somewhere to start looking.” 

“You mean if Cowell wasn’t such a shady piece of –” 

“Liam,” Harry cuts him off, “name-calling isn’t going to help. His decisions have kept the world safe until now. Whether we like it or not – and I sure as hell don’t – I don’t think we can judge his methods, or the decisions he’s made.” 

Liam’s eyebrows pull together, but he gets to his feet with a sigh. “You’re too damn good, Cap. But I don’t think I need to remind you, if we’d always respected Cowell’s decisions, your boyfriend would be locked up right now. Or worse.” 

With that, he leaves the kitchen, leaving Harry and Niall behind in a sea of red light as the sun remains barely a glimmer above the horizon. Harry’s throat feels tight. That stupid USB stick is still lying there, taunting him, drawing a long shadow across the table, pointing at him. Cowell has bent the rules in their favor when it comes to Louis. Sure, there’s plenty of reason to acquit him as a prisoner of war, but Harry knows a lot of people would look at Louis not as a former prisoner, but as a – 

He cuts off his own thoughts. There’s no point thinking about this now, not when there’s plenty of other, more important stuff. Louis still isn’t talking to him. Zayn may or may not be missing. And the chances of this year ending in less turmoil than the last are slowly but steadily evaporating with the sinking sun. 

“So,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to do, “want to order Thai for dinner?” 

Niall shrugs. “Sure.” He gets to his feet, leaving the mostly empty bottle of Vitamin Water on the table, and stretches. “But I’m hitting the gym first. Order me something spicy, will ya?” 

Harry barely has time to nod before Niall disappears, heading back down to bust up his knuckles even more in his frustration. He can’t blame him. He has half a mind to join him down there and push his body so far that his mind would shut up for a while; that this treacherous little shred of doubt that has burrowed deep into his head would quiet down for just a little longer. 

Louis is somewhere in this tower, and everything that’s happened to him since he fell is right there, hidden in a tiny and seemingly insignificant data stick, all there for the taking. It’s irrational to believe that whatever is on there could soothe his doubts, but it would inevitably make everything else pale in comparison. 

Harry sits alone in the kitchen, staring at that USB stick with a dry throat and a heavy heart, until it’s dark. Then he gets up and tells JARVIS to order Niall some spicy prawns. 

 

 

It’s late when they finish dinner. Nobody really talks, and there is only the sound of used cutlery being sorted into the dishwasher to fill the silence once they’re done. Harry has hardly touched his food, and what he’d ordered for Louis is sitting on the counter, untouched as well. Liam and Niall’s eyes are burning into his back, but Harry continues going through the motions stoically as he boxes up the food and puts it in the fridge for later. 

Liam awkwardly clears his throat once Harry has closed the fridge door. “I’m, um…heading back to the lab. Working on a new prototype and…stuff.” 

“Give me a shout if you want to test it out,” Harry tells him with a tired smile, watching as Liam disappears, leaving only Harry and Niall in the quiet kitchen. “What are you up to?” he asks, only to delay the inevitable for another handful of moments. 

Niall leans his shoulder against the wall and folds his arms in front of his chest, looking as tired and stretched thin as Harry feels. “Nothing, really. I think Payno told JARVIS to lock the gym door if I get too close to it. So I might just stay here and watch some crap on TV. You up for it, Cap?” 

Harry would love to watch some senseless stuff for a bit, but he shakes his head. “Not tonight. There’s something I need to do.” 

With his lips slightly pursed, Niall shoves off the wall and pushes his hands into the pockets of his SHIELD-issued track pants. “Good luck.” 

They both know he’ll need it. 

The ride up to his – to _their_ – floor is tense, the lift seeming to take longer than it usually does, and when Harry steps out, he is greeted by silence and complete and utter darkness. He’s not sure what he expected. Louis doesn’t leave the tower at all, unless Cowell calls him in, which is still a rare occasion, but his constant presence is not felt, and Harry hasn’t begun to figure out where he disappears to with only limited options. He clearly isn’t in the living room, and there’s no light coming from the bedroom either, but Harry heads there anyway, trying to ignore the weight that settles in his belly and gets heavier with every step he takes. 

The door is ajar, and when he slowly pushes it open and sees Louis’ silhouette on the bed, against the dim, constant light of Manhattan pouring into the room, his breath hitches – an inevitable reaction, the persisting wonder that Louis is _here_. And Harry is willing to do absolutely anything to make sure it stays that way. 

Louis is lying on his side, his back to the door, which is a bit of a relief because it shows that regardless of everything else, at least he doesn’t feel constantly threatened anymore. He feels safe here, like he can let down his guard in the safety of the tower – of their bedroom. But Louis is also curled in on himself, making himself appear smaller than he is, especially since he’s practically drowning in one of Harry’s threadbare sweatshirts. It’s still warm enough to comfortably wear nothing more than a t-shirt, but even throughout the entire summer, Louis had not once shed one of the many layers he uses to hide away his body; hide away his arm. 

Distractedly, Harry wonders if Louis will ever accept it as part of him, if he’ll ever be comfortable exposing his prosthetic. But that’s the last thing Harry wants to pressure Louis about. He still has flashbacks to that moment he walked into the bathroom that has since been scrubbed clean a hundred times, and found Louis in a sea of his own blood, so desperate to tear this wretched limb off.  

Harry knows Louis noticed him the second he stepped out of the lift, but he still hesitates for a beat before walking up to the bed and gently lowering himself down on it, maneuvering around until he’s sitting back against the headboard, pillows bunched up at his lower back. 

Louis doesn’t move. Harry has gotten used to this slightly unnerving stillness he sinks into every so often – unnerving mostly because the Louis he used to know could not be still for even a second. Even while asleep, he’d toss and turn and steal the blankets. 

With a sigh, Harry draws his knees closer to his chest, fingers automatically finding a loose thread at the hem of his jeans. He fiddles with it, unsure how to start, where to start, letting his eyes wander around the room and out the window before inevitably coming to rest on Louis’ form on top of the duvet. His feet are bare, his ankles pale and bony, and Harry itches to reach out, feel his warm skin against his fingers. 

Just weeks ago, it had been easier, and Harry wouldn’t have hesitated to touch him, might have even laid down beside him, pulling him into his arms, back against his chest, one palm spread out over Louis’ heart, feeling it beat, and every thud assuring Harry that his whole world was back for good. He thinks of his last meeting with Caroline and the veterans’ group where he told everyone how well it was going and that they were getting closer by the day. 

He feels a bit stupid now. 

It’s not Louis’ fault. And Harry knows that everyone would tell him that it’s not his fault either, but deep down, he knows that he made Louis leave once before, and there is nothing he is more terrified of than that happening again. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath for courage. “Please talk to me,” he says, voice hardly above a whisper, not willing to disrupt this moment of stillness with any noise, any movement. “I don’t want to pressure you, believe me, but we’ve got to be honest with each other. If there’s anything I’ve done, anything that’s troubling you, you can tell me. Or…we can call in Caroline,” he tacks on, because Harry knows he’s not good at this. He tries to keep himself in check, tries to give Louis space while being there at the same time, but it’s a balancing act he hasn’t quite mastered. Caroline helped him so much in the last year, and he knows she’s capable of doing the same for Louis. If only he’d let her. 

“Niall is there as well, and Liam, if he manages to leave his lab for long enough. And Zayn when…when he comes back. You don’t have to isolate yourself.” He sighs, lifts his right hand to rub at his tired eyes, thinking back to that being his very own coping mechanism and how relieved he’d felt once he’d finally opened up. “I understand that it seems easier, because I – I did the same when they brought me back. And it wasn’t good.” 

Throwing up on an airstrip in Washington, D.C., was definitely not one of his proudest moments, but isolating himself then and thinking about it constantly now seems equally pointless. It’s something Caroline told him to keep working on; to take every day as it comes, and not let his mind wander too far back into the past or forward to the future. Harry doubts that him reminiscing about how shitty he’d felt and how much he’d done wrong is going to help Louis now, and he can’t do much more than remind him that he’s not alone, that he’s got their full support. 

They all need to focus on the present now, and that elephant in the room or rather, still the kitchen, has remained untouched all evening, since Liam dropped it on the table. Harry knows it would take only a minute to open it up and pore over it, or have JARVIS filter out what’s important, or relevant. It might help to know more about what happened to Louis, and it might explain what’s happening to him now. 

But it’s Louis’ story, and it’s his to tell, and if he isn’t ready to tell Harry, he’s not going to go behind his back. Harry needs to make sure that Louis knows that as well. 

“That data stick Liam dropped off…I’m not touching it, not unless you want me to. Just say the word and I’m happy to go downstairs and reduce it to dust. And whatever is on there…I don’t want to see it. I’d rather – I’d rather you tell me about it, whenever you’re ready.” 

Louis doesn’t move suddenly. Not at all. But the fact that he decides to move at all is so startling that Harry flinches anyway when Louis rolls onto his back, eyes glued to the ceiling. His hair – longer than it’s ever been and in more disarray than Louis would have previously allowed it – falls away from his face, revealing his sharp profile, his eyes that are piercing even in the dark. There’s stubble on his face, enough to tell Harry that Louis hasn’t shaved in a number of days, which…is worrying, in a way. It’s become one of the rituals Louis follows every day, standing in front of the bathroom mirror at the same time in the morning, delicately dragging a razor over his face like he’s not stripping off hair, but instead putting on skin. 

Something has disrupted that routine, and Harry wonders if it has anything to do with why Louis has suddenly become so withdrawn. 

The left sleeve of his sweatshirt has ridden up a little, vibranium shimmering, and Harry is struck, every time, by its perverse beauty – by its finesse and brutality. By what it represents for Louis. And it spurs him on to say, “it doesn’t matter what’s on that USB stick. Okay? I don’t give a shit. Because we will hunt them down, all of them, down to the very last man. And we will make them pay for this.”

It’s easier to let that anger take over and allow it to silence his worries and doubts. And taking over it does. It’s something he knows he can never let go of, and as long as there is a single HYDRA agent still walking free, Harry refuses to even consider it. He doesn’t advertise it, certainly not in front of Caroline, or Cowell, or even the other Avengers. This simmering but burning hatred that he’s aware will spur him on to do terrible things to make sure not a single one of those bastards ever gets their hands on Louis again.

Harry doesn’t realize his hands are trembling until warm fingers close around them, and he doesn’t realize his vision is blurring until Louis is right there in front of him, his shape mildly fuzzy as his knees dig into the mattress on either side of Harry’s legs. Harry’s breath hitches again, jumps up into his throat and stays there and for a moment, he can’t do anything but dumbly stare at Louis, his proximity so intoxicating that it seems to entirely flatline Harry’s brain. 

“Louis…I –” 

Louis lets go of Harry’s hand, and a beat later is cradling his face with both hands – one warm and one so cold that Harry’s skin twitches from the contact. He can barely see Louis’ face in the dark, but he can feel his lips a fraction of a second later, chapped and dry but warm and so familiar that the breath stuck in Harry’s throat instantly starts to burn. The hold Louis has on his face is firm, and his mouth is equally unforgiving, but Harry couldn’t stop even if he wanted to; even though he knows it would be the right thing to do, given everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. 

But Harry is starved for it. He’s ashamed of how much he wants and needs this, despite his many assurances that it’s the last thing on his mind. His hands come flying up on their own, tangling in the fabric of what is his own sweatshirt, but worn by Louis, warmed by him, smelling like him, and it’s heady. 

Louis takes, uncompromising and open-mouthed, and Harry lets him take it, would let him take everything and more for just a few moments of this on occasion. They’ve not kissed since that fateful day in the spring, and this is sudden, it is far too sudden, especially since Louis has been so far away recently. And there is a persistent voice in Harry’s head that’s getting quieter and quieter, that’s telling him that this is not just a bad idea, but that something is just _wrong_. 

But his mind needs to shut up, because Harry doesn’t care. 

His arms circle around Louis’ waist and Harry pulls him closer – still not close enough, but Harry will take it gladly. With his jeans getting tighter and his pulse increasing, Harry can’t stay still anymore. His legs are twitching, and the muscles in his arms are screaming at him to put them to use. It’s just too easy to let muscle memory take over, biting at Louis’ lower lip and using that brief moment of surprise to topple them over onto the mattress, sheets rustling as their combined body weight sinks into them. 

Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, with hardly an ounce of air between them, Harry is about to lose himself to it when he notices that Louis – he’s not – 

He’s so still, apart from his lips and the pressure of his hands on Harry’s neck, and from one second to the next, as if something had sent an electric shock through Harry’s body, Harry shoots up and scrambles back. His heart is thundering away, but his whirling mind screeches to a sudden halt when he looks at Louis. 

And he looks entirely unaffected. His lips are swollen and his hair is tousled, but he’s pushing up onto his elbows, and he’s looking at Harry with…with empty eyes and an expression so vacant that Harry thinks for a moment that he’s going to throw up. Louis doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t move another inch, his unwavering stare cold but still burning into Harry, because – _Christ._

He pushes off the bed, pulls the sheets halfway off with him because they get tangled around his legs, nearly making him fall backwards. Harry just catches himself, heart thumping away painfully, and because he’s apparently the absolute worst at dealing with things head on, Harry does one of the stupidest things he’s ever done – he darts into the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him. 

The lights flicker on, bouncing off the white tiles so brightly that Harry squeezes his eyes shut. Blindly stumbling towards the sinks, he leans heavily on the cool marble counter, swallows thickly and tries to get his breathing under control. When he opens his eyes and takes in his reflection that is taunting him from the mirror, he looks – well. Harry looks like he was just thoroughly fucked.

His lips are red and puffy, his face is flushed, and the curls that have started to brush past his shoulders are in knots. Only the look in his wide, red-brimmed eyes betrays that illusion. The shock of it clings to every inch of his body; realizing that Louis was – that he wasn’t quite present. That something had triggered Louis to kiss him, or perhaps it was the kiss itself that was triggering, and Harry struggles to determine what’s worse, ultimately deciding that it was him not realizing that and…and selfishly taking advantage. 

Harry turns on the tap and splashes some cold water in his face, but it doesn’t help to settle him even in the slightest, and it doesn’t slow down the steady stream of panic that is circulating through his body. It doesn’t matter what happened back there, and why. He took advantage when he should have known better, when he should have been strong enough to stop Louis. He should have known that regardless of how much he wanted to be close to Louis, they aren’t ready for that. There is no way Louis is ready, given how frequently he still zones out, has episodes and moments of obscurity. And if Harry is being perfectly honest – he is far from ready himself. 

While there are still gaps in Louis’ memory, they cannot become physical. 

Harry stays in the bathroom for a long while, thinking about what to do next, how to approach Louis and how to broach the subject without – without making him more uncomfortable; without fucking up again. He doesn’t want Louis to feel rejected – or worse, violated in any way – and he needs to apologize. But he figures he should be doing that with a clear head, after sufficiently calming down and carefully selecting the right words to say. 

And maybe Harry should listen to his own advice and talk to someone first. He isn’t going to call Caroline this late at night, even if that’s what he really wants to do, but he is pretty sure that both Liam and Niall are still wide awake. None of them have particularly healthy sleeping patterns. 

He exits the bathroom quietly, still expecting Louis’ empty stare to fall on him once he steps back into the bedroom, but instead, Louis has returned to his previous position, curled up and facing the window, curled up and small – fragile. Like nothing had happened at all. 

Taking a shuddering breath, Harry makes a beeline for the hallway, and wonders briefly whether he should just join Niall watching whatever it is he decided on, perhaps exchange a couple of words in between scenes. But Niall has his own worries at the moment, weighed down thinking about what might have happened to Zayn, and he doesn’t need to burden himself with Harry’s problems as well. Liam is most likely elbow deep in another creation of his and distracted, but he’s proven to be a good listener, so Harry decides to head to the lab, where Liam spends about ninety-eight percent of his time. 

Loud music blasts into his ears the second the lift doors slide open. He can’t even see Liam at first, because it looks like someone dumped an entire junkyard’s content into this room. It’s a weird clash of extremely modern equipment and rusty car parts. On his left, there’s a collection of beeping noises that break through the music, and Harry turns to see Dum-E trying to wheel through the mess on the floor. Harry doesn’t even begin to wonder why the robot has a neon yellow feather boa around its…neck. 

He finds Liam, as expected, elbow deep in one of his suits, which is a mildly disturbing sight, to say the least. He’s looking frazzled, brows furrowed and exposed arms and face shining with sweat. Behind him, the panorama window shows an impressive view of midtown Manhattan at night, windows lit up like stars on the darkened canopy. 

Liam looks up from his work, clearly surprised, but he schools his expression quickly, pulling his hands out of the machine and wiping them on a rag that’s tucked into the waistband of his pants. 

“Hey there, Cap,” he greets him and the music gets quieter and quieter until it’s barely a hum in the background. “Didn’t expect to see you down here tonight.” 

“Yeah, I…” Harry trails off, not sure what to say really, or what to do. He’s always a bit wary about touching or coming too close to some of the things in here. “Don’t think I can sleep tonight.” 

Liam’s face falls. “Oh shit. You talked to Louis, didn’t you? Did it not go well?” 

“Not well is a bit of an understatement,” he rasps in response. He knows his eyes are probably wide and glassy, his face red and blotchy. “Liam, I –I screwed up.” 

Liam gets up, alarmed, and rounds his workshop bench, conjuring two chairs out of seemingly nowhere and pulling Harry down on one of them before taking a seat opposite him. “What happened?” 

Harry feels ashamed just thinking about it, but he came here to talk, so he’s going to talk. “He didn’t say anything,” he tells Liam, “but I just wanted him to know that, you know, we’re all here to talk if something is going on, and I just wanted to assure him that I wasn’t going to look at what’s on the data stick you gave me. I mean, I want him to tell me what happened to him once he remembers, once he’s ready.” 

He pauses, and Liam extends his arms, places his hand on Harry’s knee, silently encouraging him to continue. 

Harry’s throat goes tight. “He – just out of the blue, he kissed me. And I didn’t stop him.” 

Liam’s brows draw together. He opens his mouth to respond, but gets cuts off by Dum-E beeping in distress because the feather boa has fallen to the ground. He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “stupid robot,” before focusing on Harry again. “That’s not a bad thing, is it? You guys have…I mean, saying you guys have a history is an understatement.” 

Harry shakes his head, dropping his gaze to his hands wringing in his lap. “You don’t understand, he…when I pulled back – he wasn’t there. Behind his eyes. He was just…vacant.” 

“Shit.” 

“I don’t know where he went,” Harry continues, knuckles white from tension, “and I don’t know what triggered him, but he wasn’t there and I – I didn’t even think about that. I took advantage and –” 

“Hey,” Liam cuts him off, squeezing his knee, causing Harry to meet his eyes. “Come on, Harry, you’re too hard on yourself. This situation, Louis’ brain…it’s a minefield. And you can’t anticipate everything and you can’t keep castigating yourself.” 

“But –” 

“No buts,” Liam says with a firm voice that doesn’t allow protest. “Not everything is your fault. And you stopped. You probably stopped the second you knew something didn’t feel right, so don’t beat yourself up.” 

Harry huffs in protest. “Well, what am I supposed to do instead?” 

“Call Caroline in the morning,” Liam is quick to respond. He gives Harry a quick smile, another squeeze to the knee before putting his hands on his thighs and twisting his neck to the left and to the right, his spine cracking quietly as he does it. “Have a chat with her, get Louis to talk to her as well. Or sit with her, at least.” 

Harry’s eyes flicker to the window. It’s hours until dawn, hours until he can call their trusted therapist without feeling guilty. “Sitting with her is more likely. He isn’t doing much talking at the moment.” He glances back at Liam, who’s biting his lip like he’s holding back something he is eager to say. “What is it?” 

He pulls a face, which Harry doesn’t consider a good sign. “I don’t…nothing, really.” 

“Liam,” Harry insists. “Come on. What?” 

It takes a sigh and a minute of Liam chewing on his lips before he speaks up again. “I guess I’m just wondering how often Louis still – zones out. Has episodes where he’s not quite himself. How far gone he is when that happens.” 

It stuns Harry a little. He hasn’t really thought about it that way. He has been so preoccupied thinking about literally everything else that he hasn’t let his mind wander in that direction. “I’m not sure. He’s been keeping to himself, so I can’t, but SHIELD has given him clearance for missions, and Cowell wouldn’t –” 

Liam’s brows shoot up. “Really? You think Cowell wouldn’t give the green light prematurely to get shit done? And I’m pretty sure Zayn had clear instructions on what to do should Louis relapse mid-mission.” 

Harry can’t say he likes it, but Liam has a point, and it had been Louis’ choice to go as well. But in the summer, he’d also seemed far more stable and like he was making actual progress. “You’re right. But…there is no way of knowing, is there? No precedent. We’re just – flying blind.” 

“Well,” Liam shrugs, “ain’t the first time, right? It’s not like we were prepared for an alien army invading New York either. In comparison, a semi-amnesiac, formerly brainwashed cyborg assassin should be a piece of cake.” 

Harry can’t help but chuckle at that. “Should be, right? Trust me, an alien army from outer space has nothing on Louis.” 

“Somehow,” Liam says with a smile, “that doesn’t sound like a bad thing when you say it. And maybe it’s not. Your Louis is a tough cookie. And so are we. We’ll figure it out.” He claps his hands together and gets to his feet. “Now, if you want to seek sanctuary in my lab, you’ll have to make yourself useful and get Dum-E his boa before he messes everything up even more. There’s a system to this chaos.” 

“Of course there is,” Harry mutters under his breath and gets to his feet, careful to not step on anything that’s lying on the ground between him and Dum-E. He drapes the feather boa around the robot and it whirrs contentedly before wheeling itself off to the side. Liam is already back at his suit prototype, digging around its innards in concentration, so Harry finds somewhere that isn’t in the way and settles down to watch Liam work.

 

 

Harry wakes to his cheek sticking to a metal workbench and a mouth that feels like cotton. With a crick in his neck, he pushes himself into a sitting position and rubs his eyes. The early morning sun is flooding into the lab, all the polished metal parts multiplying the orange rays and dipping everything into an almost unnaturally intense glow. He must’ve passed out quite a while ago, because despite his awkward position, Harry feels relatively well-rested. 

“Morning.” 

Liam doesn’t look rested, walking down the few steps that lead to the lab’s small but well-equipped kitchenette, two steaming cups of undoubtedly really strong coffee in his hands. He gives one to Harry, who says his thanks and takes it despite the urge to brush his teeth and eat something first. 

“Morning. Sorry for nodding off. And,” he adds with a grimace, “drooling on your work bench.” 

Liam waves him off. “Good thing you did. Because I got a message from Cowell summoning us to his office first thing this morning. Better to be rested for that.” 

Harry nearly spills his drink. “What? Why is he calling us in?”

Suppressing a yawn, Liam shrugs. “No idea.” He has a sip of his coffee, runs a hand through his freshly-showered hair. “Something to do with Zayn? Maybe he needs backup.” 

“Let’s hope so,” Harry replies, puts his cup down and gets up. His body feels stiff, but that’s nothing a hot shower won’t fix. “Does Niall know? And Louis?” 

“I’ve told Niall,” Liam tells him, “he’s on his way over there already. Said he wanted to make use of the shooting range so that he doesn’t end up shooting Cowell if it’s bad news.” 

“Sounds sensible. And Louis?” 

“Um…” Liam hesitates. “Louis has gone ghost on us. And JARVIS. Pretty sure he’s discovered all of JARVIS’s blind spots. But I left a message.” 

“Oh.” Harry isn’t sure if Louis finding blind spots that probably didn’t exist before he got there is as little a deal as Liam makes it sound, but if Cowell wants them in his office, then there’s no time to ponder on that. And unfortunately, there’s also no time to call Caroline, so that will have to wait until after. “Do I have time to shower?” 

“Sure, Cap. Knock yourself out. I’ll wait for you in the garage.”

  

 

Harry puts on his nondescript, black SHIELD uniform, feeling that it’s appropriate for a meeting with Cowell and perhaps necessary if they’re being sent off straight away. And since Liam is driving them, he doesn’t have to worry about drawing attention to himself. He would have preferred to wake up earlier to squeeze in a short run, but it’s already past seven, and the Director isn’t known for his patience. 

Liam is waiting in front of one of his sports cars that will definitely draw attention and that Harry finds more than a little over the top, but it’s too early to get into a discussion about Liam’s flashy taste. Harry and Louis had grown up in poverty with barely enough money to pay for food and a roof over their heads, so he can’t help the discomfort that arises when he’s confronted with Liam’s wealth and how easy it is for him to throw it out the window, spend it on expensive and over-the-top things that he’s sure nobody really needs. But it’s neither the time nor the place to talk about that. They need to get this meeting with Cowell over with and then put out the few fires they’re leaving behind at the tower. 

The engine of Liam’s car is obnoxiously loud when he puts it into gear, and they don’t even need that much horsepower, because as expected, Manhattan traffic at this time in the morning is an absolute nightmare and by the time they reach SHIELD and put the car into park in the building’s underground garage, they’re already a few minutes late. 

They run into Niall just outside the lifts, his face unusually stoic. The circles beneath his eyes seem even darker than yesterday and his mouth is pressed into a thin line, seemingly every inch of his body in tension. 

“Gotta to take a leak,” he tells them and waves them off, “I’ll meet you in his office.” 

Harry and Liam take the lift without him and watch as the number goes up and up as an uneasy feeling starts to grow and fester in Harry’s gut. The tips of his fingers start to tingle for some inexplicable reason and suddenly he’s glad that he didn’t have anything but coffee earlier. Somehow, he feels like this meeting won’t be over and done with within the next half hour. Something tells him that this year is not going to go quietly. 

And that these few minutes in the lift are the last moment of calm before the storm. 

Now, Harry has always been able to trust his instincts. And he’s always had pretty good intuition, but nothing could have prepared him for how on point he is on this day, because he is barely five steps down the hallway to the Director’s office when the ground rumbles underneath his feet and a beat later, a fire erupts ahead and a hot shockwave sends him flying.

 

 

 

When the dust clears, Harry’s ears are ringing. For a moment, it throws him off, and it takes a beat for it to sink in that he’s in a horizontal position on the floor, cheek pressed to itchy carpet. He rolls over and pushes up, coming to stand on wobbly legs and feeling completely off balance. He stumbles sideways, shoulder hitting the wall as dust and shreds of paper whirl around his head. 

He thinks he hears screams through the shrill noise echoing in his head and Harry squeezes his eyes shut for just a second, presses his right hand to his temple and tries to breathe. When he opens his eyes again, he sees it; sees, but doesn’t register. Not really, at least. Not completely. Up ahead, the hallway just – cuts off. It cuts off and in its place, where Cowell’s office should be on the top floor of SHIELD’s Manhattan facilities, is nothing but a gaping hole. There’s nothing but…there’s nothing. 

Instinctively, Harry reaches for his shield before realizing that it’s at the tower, that he hadn’t felt the need to bring it with him, because there was no reason, there was no threat, nothing indicating anything like this might happen. He wasn’t prepared, Harry realizes, legs glued to the spot and spine rigid. This is one of the few moments in his two lives – and he’s been in ambushes before, in explosive and unpredictable situations – that he’s staring ahead and hasn’t got a fucking clue what happened or what he is supposed to do. 

A modern painting – abstract and colorful shapes in a silver frame, literally hanging by a thread – suddenly drops to the ground, tips to the side and topples over the edge and towards the street hundreds of feet below. Strangely, it’s what makes Harry snap out of it long enough to remember that Liam is with him. He spins around, balance still off, and sinks to one knee, black spots clouding his vision before he can make out Liam curled up just a few steps to the side, arms crossed over his head and forehead pressed to the floor. 

Harry makes his way over and grabs Liam by the shoulders. His body is shaking and his face is white as a sheet, far-away stare going nowhere, and what Harry assumes is his PTSD hitting him with full force. But he’s not injured, at least not that Harry can tell, so he deposits Liam a couple of feet back, propped up against a hopefully stable wall. Agents are already approaching to get everyone out and secure the premises, Harry guesses, and he should help, get people out and away, but he can’t help but turn around again. 

Wind blows around his ears, tearing at his uniform-clad body, gurgling and growling, the damaged building groaning and people still screaming, clambering away from where Director Cowell’s office has just been ripped out of the side of a fucking skyscraper like it was nothing but a block of LEGO in a toy tower. 

They were meant to meet the Director in there in just a minute. To talk about – Harry isn’t sure what Cowell wanted to talk to them about. Perhaps clue them in on where Zayn has disappeared to, what he’s up to, why Niall can’t get a hold of him. Harry had just assumed it was going to be a day like any other; a briefing like any of the briefings he’s sat through since waking up. 

Through the chaos and eardrum-shattering noises, Harry looks at Manhattan lying to his feet and it hits him then – it hits him that Director Cowell is gone. Just – gone. 

Wiped off the face of the Earth like it was fucking nothing.

 

 

***

 

 

_to be continued_

 

 


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-four hours isn’t a long time. But Harry thinks that their best plan of action is to do what they did last time: figure out what really happened and present SHIELD with whatever that is. There is no way he is allowing Louis to be taken into custody. Not when he knows exactly what they’ve done to him. SHIELD is getting Louis over his dead body. And both Liam and Niall know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having a pretty dreadful week, so here is chapter two. it is the first chapter in this 'verse in which there is a pov change, and from here on out, pov will alternate between two main characters because a) it makes sense plot-wise and b) i want to. 
> 
> dimples beta'd this, all say thanks to dimples. also chapter three might be a while. 
> 
> please do enjoy. also don't hate me.
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: mention of PTSD, brainwashing and torture. also, as always, lots of swearing.
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags. italics are flashbacks.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

 

 

**CHAPTER II.**

It’s not sinking in. It’s been – _God_ , Harry doesn’t even know how long it’s been since the bomb detonated in Cowell’s office, reducing it and the man in it into nothing more than debris and dust. It could be hours that have passed since, blurring together in the flurry of noise and erratic movement, boots thundering on the ground and screams echoing in his head. 

No casualties so far is what Harry hears amidst the chaos. Dozens rushed to nearby hospitals or still being treated for minor injuries in the building or in its vicinity, panic gripping every single civilian, because at first glance, it appears to be an attack aimed to be reminiscent of 9/11; a smouldering tower in downtown Manhattan, a cloud of ash sinking towards the streets. But the damage is surprisingly small, the blast calculated and contained to obliterate Cowell’s office and not much else, the subsequent panic among citizens barely an afterthought to whoever it was who planted the bomb. 

No casualties but one, Harry remembers with a chill, taken out in what he’d always assumed to be a fortress. And that’s where the real panic comes from. Not from worrying that this is in any way an attempt to instil fear, to induce mass hysteria. But from the knowledge that this was a planned, precise and targeted assassination of a person who had spent decades with undoubtedly more than just a few targets on his back, executed without anybody in this network of intelligence agents noticing that the lethal device had been planted in their very midst. 

SHIELD agents and officers are trained professionals, and they’ve been taught to not give in to pressure and show their own fears, but Harry can see it in the erratic nature of their movements, in the thin but trembling lines of their lips pressed tightly together and in the restlessness of their gazes, flittering rapidly like they might be able to spot the culprit in every corner of this building. 

Harry is far from being an expert when it comes to explosives, and today’s technology is a far cry from the Molotov cocktails the Howling Commandoes had thrown to distract Nazi troops. But he knows enough to understand that it was no small feat to smuggle a bomb into SHIELD facilities, one of, if not _the_ most secure building in New York City. Someone planted a device not only in this building full of agents, but in the office of the man who Liam would jokingly call the king of spies, but they always knew it was more reality than a joke. 

Harry can’t begin to wrap his head around what happened, and how, and looking at Liam and Niall who are sitting opposite him in this small and stuffy room waiting for new information, they can’t either. There’s a gash with crusty, dried blood just above Liam’s right eyebrow. Niall is unharmed, stuck in one of the lifts going up as the bomb had detonated a few stories above him, but he’s pale and tense, and his right hand keeps twitching like he is just aching to draw an arrow from his quiver and shoot something to release that tension. 

Zayn is still missing and so, technically, is Louis, and Harry is beginning to fear that there might be more to both. 

So it’s more than a little disconcerting that the person who walks into the room followed by three members of the STRIKE team isn’t the leader of said STRIKE team, a man with military and intelligence experience who they all have worked with on numerous occasions, but Walsh, a small and unassuming old man who usually works in the background, pulling the strings Cowell wants him to pull, and who Harry doesn’t trust as far as he can throw him. 

Harry catches Niall’s eyes, and he knows exactly that Niall is thinking the exact same thing. This isn’t a good sign. 

“Gentlemen,” Walsh greets them, sitting down at the head of the makeshift conference table as a projection flickers to life on the wall behind his head. It’s footage from the security camera just outside Cowell’s office, showing the empty hallway and a time and date, indicating it’s from very early this morning, a few hours before Liam and Harry had arrived. 

Either he doesn’t notice their hostility towards him, or he doesn’t care as he folds his hands on the table like this is a meeting just like any other. A part of Harry thinks it might be the former; Walsh doesn’t seem like a person who is particularly introspective about how he is perceived by others. 

“You seem to be down two members,” Walsh continues like he’s just noticed, and Harry bites his tongue in time to stop himself from telling Walsh to cut the crap. He knows very well that there are only three Avengers present, and he’s known that for more than a moment. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry can see Niall ball his left hand into a fist. “There’s no information on either Agent Malik or the Winter Soldier’s current whereabouts and I am hoping you might be able to shed some light on that.” 

Harry blanches. “What did you just call him?” He feels his spine go rigid and his shoulders square, and it instantly shifts the entire atmosphere in the room. It was tense before, but now the air is suddenly so thick Harry can feel its weight. 

Walsh pretends to be unaffected, but Harry sees how his eyes narrow when the man focuses his gaze on him. “Agent Malik and the Winter Soldier –”, but Harry cuts him off before he can go on, not having even a shred of patience if Walsh insists on referring to Louis as _that_. 

“He has a name,” Harry says, and he is aware what Walsh is trying to do. He’s dehumanizing Louis, acting like there is no person behind the mask he puts on in SHIELD’s name nowadays, and perhaps that’s how he thinks of Louis; what they all still think of him. The Director hasn’t done much to dispel that image. 

“It doesn’t matter what I call him,” Walsh insists, “but I would appreciate if you could enlighten me: where is he? The Director called all of you in this morning, correct? And he is certainly not present, and neither is Agent Malik for that matter. There are no operations with his name in the database.” 

Niall mutters something under his breath before Harry can reply, and he raises his voice just a moment later. “You know Zayn’s missions are rarely put into the database, Walsh. Don’t pretend like there is anything unusual about that,” Niall says and he looks ready to pounce should Walsh deny that. 

Harry is not far off either. “Sergeant Tomlinson is at the tower,” he tells Walsh and he ignores the quick look Liam shoots him, hoping that he’ll just go with it and not correct Harry, because technically, neither of them know if Louis really is at the tower. But Harry wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, and he also wants to calm his mind a little, thinking of Louis safely under JARVIS’ supervision. “The Director didn’t indicate what the meeting this morning was going to be about, and since he was unwell, we came without him.” 

“Unwell, is he?” Walsh asks, but to Harry, it almost sounds like a sneer. And if he was feeling uneasy earlier, strung tight from the chaos of this morning and not knowing what was going on, it’s nothing compared to what washes over him like a wave when the image behind Walsh is put in motion. 

“Maybe,” Walsh continues, “ _Sergeant Tomlinson_ didn’t feel like joining you this morning, because he had already made a trip to the Director’s office just past four o’clock this morning.” 

Harry’s gut reaction is to ask what the hell Walsh is talking about, but that question dies before it’s managed to leave his throat and crawl onto his tongue, because the security footage projected onto the wall very clearly shows the time, and the date, and the dark figure walking in and out of the frame in the course of five seconds. It’s dark outside, but the hallway is well lit, and even though only the back of him is visible…it’s undoubtedly Louis. 

The gleam of his prosthetic is almost treacherous in the cold light, left sleeve of his uniform cut off because as much as Louis hides his arm away when he’s at the tower, Harry has the sickening feeling that Cowell had enjoyed the horror it instilled in people when they saw that metal arm and understood who SHIELD had sent to deal with them. Louis had been a trophy in his eyes, but he’d also been a weapon. 

And now Walsh is implying that this weapon had turned on Cowell, blowing him to pieces. 

“You think he did this,” Harry concludes as the footage is replayed again and again, having been put on a loop to underline that they have a traitor in their midst. It’s damning evidence, Harry can admit as much. But they’ve been there before. “You found this footage, and you are convinced that he killed the Director, right?” 

“Between him and you and Mr. Payne, nobody set foot on that floor, Captain. I am sure it’s not difficult to understand that –” 

“Don’t give me that crap,” Harry interrupts him, brows drawing together, giving Walsh a scathing look. “The last time you had what you thought was bulletproof evidence on him, you were ready to call on a manhunt to catch him, but it turned out that he’d done you and all of us a massive favour. You’re jumping to conclusions again.” 

“We’re not jumping to anything, Captain,” Walsh disagrees. “I am sure we can all agree that the skills required to successfully pull off an attack like this, with three Avengers in close vicinity, may I add, is not something that many people would be capable of. And even though the evidence is circumstantial at the moment –” 

Harry can’t believe it. “Circumstantial evidence? You have footage of him walking down a corridor,” he bites out. “That is no evidence.” 

But Walsh seems undeterred. Harry doesn’t like feeling like he’s backed into a corner, but with Walsh insisting on Louis’ guilt and Niall and Liam not fucking saying anything to defend him, Harry’s unease grows tenfold. 

“Captain, you don’t need to agree with our findings, but I have orders to have the suspect brought in for questioning, and to ensure that nobody else comes to harm at his hands,” Walsh states firmly. He looks so utterly pleased with himself. Harry wants to punch him. 

“He’s not a threat.” Because he isn’t. Sure, Louis is withdrawn, and confused, and his memory is still not fully put back together, but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous. That doesn’t mean he’d go ahead and plant a bomb in Cowell’s office. 

“This isn’t a debate, Captain,” Walsh retorts and gets to his feet, flanked by two STRIKE agents who are undoubtedly there to make sure that this situation doesn’t escalate. Harry didn’t see it before, but he gets it now. He’d quite like to tear Walsh a new one. “I thought it best to inform you and to get your cooperation on this matter, but I can order agents to bring Tomlinson in with or without you.” 

“Can I make a suggestion?” Liam suddenly pipes up, surprising Harry, but he guesses better late than never. “We go ahead and talk to him, assess the state that he’s in. If it was a glitch in his programming that made him do this, he could be confused, and bringing him in like this might escalate the situation.” 

He gives Harry a look, and whatever protest is on the tip of Harry’s tongue regarding the use of _programming_ when it comes to Louis, he swallows it back down, trusting Liam to know what he’s doing. “He’s an Avenger. It’s only fair if the Avengers bring him in as well.” 

Walsh doesn’t look too pleased. But he seems to be considering it at least, because he’s sure to be aware that an escalation might be more bad news than they’re equipped to handle at this point. With SHIELD in disarray and without a Director, they need every agent they have at their disposal, they need all available resources to deal with this nightmare of a situation, and not having to deal with what they believe to be a manic assassin would be a blessing. 

“Fine,” Walsh eventually says, and Harry breathes a silent sigh of relief. “You have twenty-four hours to find him and bring him in. If he’s not at SHIELD at…” and he pauses to check his watch, “twelve o’clock tomorrow, I’m sending out the STRIKE team.” 

Then he leaves the room without another word, another look, agents following behind. 

The air instantly feels a little lighter, but not for long, because there is a suspect, and it’s Louis, and Harry could do without that awful sense of déjà-vu. They’ve been here before. Not in the exact same spot, but it’s just so fucking much like Prague, like London, like goddamn Washington all over again. And it would be easier to disregard it as senseless paranoia, as SHIELD simply desperate to point the finger somewhere…but there is that security footage. And as much as Harry had tried to brush it aside in front of Walsh, now that he’s gone, he has to admit that he doesn’t understand what the hell Louis was doing here in practically the middle of the night. 

Like a thread has been cut, Liam sinks back into his chair with a long groan. “Fucking shit,” he exclaims and rubs his face, smearing a bit of dried blood over his forehead. “What the _fuck_?” Dropping his hands again, he looks at Niall, and then Harry, absolutely bewildered. “What the fuck just happened?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Harry sighs. He isn’t sure how to go from here, having no doubt that Walsh will have agents storm the tower if they don’t deliver on their agreement. “What do we do? Cowell is dead.” 

Liam utters another curse. This day just continues to feel utterly surreal. Part of Harry almost expects to wake up in Liam’s lab again and he wants this to be a bad dream, because Louis doesn’t deserve this, and regardless of the Director’s shady decisions, he didn’t exactly deserve this either. 

Harry gets to his feet, body aching and heavy, weighed down with everything that’s happened, and everything that lies ahead. Unsure how to tackle the situation, he leaves the room with Liam by his side, Niall silently trailing them. It worries Harry a little that Niall is being so quiet, but now is probably not the time. They make their way to the sub-level and back to Liam’s car. The area around the building is on lockdown, but they obviously get waved through security, and once they’re on the way back to the tower, it seems like nothing has happened at all. New Yorkers are going about their day, entirely unfazed, and once they’re back home, the inside of the tower seems strangely peaceful. 

Another calm. Another storm just waiting to hit. 

And when Harry looks at Niall after they all return to their communal living room, he thinks that storm is brewing just behind his eyes. Louis is still nowhere to be seen, but Niall is right there, and he looks like a marriage of blistering anger and downright panic. But before he can open his mouth, Liam slams a bottle of scotch onto the table, slicing through the silence. 

“What the fuck are we going to do?” he says and he look frenzied, unscrewing the bottle with twitchy hands and pouring himself a glass. Liam takes a sip, pulls a face, but takes another. “How are we going to handle this?” 

Twenty-four hours isn’t a long time. But Harry thinks that their best plan of action is to do what they did last time: figure out what really happened and present SHIELD with whatever that is. There is no way he is allowing Louis to be taken into custody. Not when he knows exactly what they’ve done to him. SHIELD is getting Louis over his dead body. And both Liam and Niall know that. 

“I don’t give a shit.” 

Both Harry and Liam whip around, and Harry knows he’s gaping. “What?” 

“I said,” Niall repeats, eerily calm at first glance, but his fingers are twitching with suppressed tension, “I don’t give a shit what you do.” Before both of them can find words to articulate their shock, Niall goes on. “Walsh can go fuck himself. I’m leaving.” 

Liam finds his voice first. “Leaving? You can’t be serious. What the hell, Niall, you can’t just leave!” 

Niall shakes his head. “I am serious. Dead serious. I’m leaving, because I’m going to try and find Zayn. And I don’t give a shit what SHIELD does, or Walsh, or frankly, the two of you. Because that’s what I’m doing.” 

“Niall,” Harry tries, but their archer shakes his head again, eyes watery but determined. 

“No. I’m done waiting around,” he presses out. “Zayn has been missing for weeks, and you guys told me to wait, to wait for Cowell to give me an order, but I’m done waiting, and I’m done taking orders. And you know what?” He adds it with a manic chuckle. “I don’t care if Tomlinson blew him up or not. He had it fucking coming. Because I can guarantee you; whatever made Zayn disappear is the reason why this shit happened today.” His nostrils flare, and his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows down the tears that are fighting their way to the surface. “He had it fucking coming, and if something has happened to Zayn, I hope I can bring him back to life just to blow him up myself.” 

Niall’s exit isn’t as dramatic as if he’d slam a door with just the lift doors sliding shut behind him, but Harry still feels thoroughly shaken. Zayn is already missing, with Niall determined to leave as well, and Louis practically being a bit of a loose cannon – they’re not in a good place right now. Far from it, and Liam seems to agree with him, judging by the way he’s solemnly nursing his drink. 

They can’t make Niall stay. They can’t force him to, even if looking for Zayn looks like a wild goose chase from where Harry is standing. But he’d do it for Louis. Hell, he’d _done_ it for Louis. And he’d do it again, so he knows there’s no swaying Niall. It just doesn’t make their job easier. 

“Well, ain’t that great,” Liam grumbles and empties his glass, thankfully not pouring another just yet. “JARVIS? Please scan the building. See if Tomlinson’s hiding somewhere.” 

_“Certainly, Sir,”_ JARVIS’ voice sounds through the room and all their hopes of this getting any easier are immediately shattered when the AI, just a brief moment later, declares, _“it appears that Sergeant Tomlinson is not on the premises, Sir.”_

He and Liam look at each other. Harry has a slew of curses just on the cusp of his lips, but he swallows them down. There’s no point in swearing, and right now, he doubts it would be any kind of relief, because the fact that Louis is actually gone, not in the tower, for whatever reason…it’s worrying. More than that, it is downright unsettling, because his mind doesn’t want to go there. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea that Louis’ mind might have disconnected from his consciousness for long enough that whatever HYDRA had put in there could resurface. 

Because if that happened… 

Harry stops that thought. But he can’t stop that seed of doubt from being planted in his head. It’s there, and he doesn’t want it to grow, but that means finding enough evidence to kill it as soon as possible. Yet at the moment, both he and Liam seem to be a bit overwhelmed, almost paralysed, and without Louis actually present, they have a mountain to climb, and the clock is ticking.

  

 

It’s probably barely been an hour; an hour in which Liam proceeds to pull up every piece of video footage he can from the areas around the tower and SHIELD HQ, and in which Harry can’t do anything but watch him do it. Out of the blue, and startling the hell out of Harry, the lift doors slide open and Louis walks into the living room. Just like that. 

He’s wearing too-large sweats, a too-large sweatshirt and socks. The sleeves, as always, are pulled down to cover his prosthetic, and his hair looks damp, curling slightly at the ends, like he’s just stepped out of the shower. He looks soft and small, and nothing like someone who might have blown up the king of spies just hours ago. Harry isn’t sure what to make of that. 

Louis stops in his tracks and freezes when he realises their presence, and sees that both Harry and Liam are staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything, which is to be expected given his recent silence, but his brows twitch briefly before he schools his expression into a blank mask again. But he seems present, Harry thinks with relief, and not like his mind is anything but entirely intact.

“Where have you been?” he asks and already feels breathless, anxious down to his core, and mildly afraid of what the answer might be; if he’s going to get an answer at all. 

He can tell that Louis doesn’t expect the question. For the last couple of months, Harry has done his best not to be overbearing, to give Louis as much space as he wanted, and that required him to back off, to stop tracking Louis’ movements, and to leave him to roam around the tower without constantly demanding to know of his whereabouts. 

Louis doesn’t reply. His eyes flicker to Liam, who has now gotten up and whose right hand is twitching towards the wristband on his left arm, only for the fraction of a second debating whether to call his suit or not. But that fraction, that twitch – it’s enough to signal to Louis that something is amiss, and that at least Liam is ready to use force. It was an error on Liam’s part to signal that, even though Harry is sure it was unintentional, a gut reaction and entirely subconscious. And even though Louis doesn’t visibly go into defence, and even though he’s swaddled in loose clothing, Harry can see the tension that grips his body and he can see that Louis is bracing himself for conflict. 

Which is not the route they should go down. 

“There was an attack on SHIELD this morning,” Harry explains, hoping it will trigger Louis to find his voice again if he lays out what is going on. “A bomb detonated in the Director’s office. Cowell was killed.” 

But Louis remains a statue, silent and still, eyes burning into Harry’s and…and somehow it feels like he’s daring Harry to go on, daring Harry and Liam and everyone to point their finger exactly like it’s happened before, but Harry isn’t going to do that. But he does need Louis to tell them the truth. He needs to know why he was outside Cowell’s office in the middle of the night, and where he has been since. 

“There’s security footage that places you outside his office just past four o’clock this morning, so naturally…naturally everyone is wondering what you were doing there.” He doesn’t say that SHIELD is ready to arrest him, but Harry knows he doesn’t need to. Louis knows what SHIELD is like, but he needs to know that Harry and Liam want to give him the benefit of the doubt; that they are going to do everything they can to solve this. But Louis needs to give them something other than stoic silence. 

“And it would be good to know,” Liam adds, despite Harry silent urging him to keep quiet for now, “where you’ve been until now. JARVIS couldn’t locate you for the last couple of hours.” 

It sounds like a thinly-veiled accusation, and Harry winces internally. 

“I realize the last couple of weeks have been difficult,” he quickly jumps in, “and that you’d rather not talk to us, but this is important. We need to know what happened so that we can figure out what to do next.” 

“Why?” 

It’s so quiet and raspy that Harry barely hears it at first. Louis’ lips hardly move at all and his expression doesn’t change, although Harry thinks for a moment that something flickers across his face, too quick to grasp, too quick to be sure it was there at all. 

“What?” he asks dumbly, not sure he heard right. 

“Why?” Louis repeats, face blank and voice flat, entirely apathetic, and it cuts through Harry’s chest like a knife.

He doesn’t understand. “What do you mean, why? We need to make sure that we deal with this as a team, regardless of what happened and –” 

“No,” Louis interrupts him, and even though his voice doesn’t increase in volume or fervour, it silences Harry straight away. “Why are you asking me at all? You’ve already made up your mind.” 

There is an edge to his tone that wasn’t there before, finally some emotion creeping into Louis’ demeanour, even if it was not was Harry was hoping for. He exchanges a quick and unsure glance with Liam, and it doesn’t need many didactic skills to see that Louis expertly picked up even the smallest hints indicating the doubts he and Liam have about Louis’ innocence in this matter. Even if Harry doesn’t want to admit it to himself, Louis still picked it up, saw through both of them, probably the moment he stepped into the room.

“We haven’t made up our minds,” Harry insists, “but there is footage of you, Louis. And if you tell us why you were there, and why we couldn’t find you until now, we can start working on finding out who really did this. Because SHIELD _have_ made up their mind. And they won’t wait long before interfering.” 

The corners of Louis’ mouth twitch, tipping his expression towards a crude and joyless smile. “And if I told you,” Louis says calmly, “that I haven’t left the tower in weeks? What would you say to that?” 

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, but for Louis, that seems answer enough. 

“I thought so,” he says. 

Liam manages to shake himself out of it first. “There is a video. And it’s you, I’m sorry, but without a doubt. With your…you know.” 

“What, this?” and Louis lifts his left hand. The sleeve slides down, and the metallic prosthetic catches the light like a precisely cut diamond. They don’t need to confirm that. The cruel line to Louis’ lips remains. “Don’t pretend like it matters what I say.” 

“It does matter!” Harry takes two steps forward, and he doesn’t miss the way Louis’ stance widens minimally, how he shifts and squares his shoulders and balls his fists like he’s preparing for combat. “We always knew that there was a possibility you might…relapse. And if that’s what happened, if you can’t remember you went to SHIELD, if you can’t remember –” 

Louis’ sharp laughter cuts him off. He shakes his head to himself, as if in disbelief, like he can’t believe Harry would suggest something that has happened a number of times already. On a much smaller scale, of course, but they all know that Louis’ had blackouts and moments of confusion, his mind going back to that blank state that HYDRA had returned it to time and time again. Harry doesn’t think Louis would ever consciously and willingly go back to that place and harm one of the people who facilitated his rehabilitation, but if Louis thinks he wasn’t where video footage clearly showed him to be… 

They need to consider the possibility that Louis slipped. That he killed Cowell without even realising it.

“Is that what you really think?” Louis grits out, muscles in his jaw working as he clenches it. “That I fucking sleepwalked to SHIELD and planted a bomb to blow up the guy who got rid of the target on my back.” 

He sounds angry, yes. But mostly, Louis just sounds resigned. He sounds unsurprised that this is the conclusion they’d come to. It stings, even if Harry knows that in this case, the obvious conclusion is slowly turning out to be true. 

“I see. So that’s how it is.” Harry’s chest clenches when Louis meets his gaze, and unlike last night, his eyes are burning. “I risked my life, again and again, and that’s the repayment. Getting locked up again. Or maybe they’ll just shoot me this time and be fucking done with it.” 

“I won’t let that happen, Louis, I promise.” Harry wants to step closer, but Louis looks so torn, so on the edge between fight or flight, that he can’t. He needs Louis to stay, to hear him out, to hear them both out, because they’re looking out for his best interest. They’re trying to do the right thing. “This isn’t your fault. We’re not blaming you, but if something triggered you, we need to figure out what it was, and how. And we can’t do that if you don’t talk to us.” 

“Oh, go to hell,” Louis practically spits. “You don’t actually want me to talk. You just want me to tell you what you want to hear.” 

“That’s not true,” Harry tries again, anxiety mounting slowly but steadily. “But Louis…you’re still hurt. More than you’re letting on. And you not remembering –” 

“I am not losing my mind!” Louis bursts, mask slipping and then sliding off completely, all sense of composure dropped from one second to the other. Harry almost shrinks back. He’s never seen Louis like this. “I am remembering just fine, I am not insane, and I didn’t fucking do it!” 

“Louis –”

“Don’t come any closer!” His voice is venomous, and Harry freezes. Louis looks more than ready to pounce, and Harry doesn’t doubt that he would hesitate a second if Harry moves another muscle in his direction. “I am _not_ taking the fall for this.” 

_Zugzwang_. The word pops into Harry’s mind and refuses to budge. He remembers it from the war; remembers catching the word leaving one of the Generals’ mouths and not knowing what it meant until Tom, who’d been an enthusiastic chess player, had explained it to him. He’d explained it using a small, port- and foldable board he’d used to carry around with him wherever he went. Harry’s forte had never been chess, nor did he have Louis’ strategic abilities, so it didn’t take long for him to reach it: the point where he had to move, but no imaginable outcome could lead to anything other but a resounding defeat. 

That is what it feels like now. Harry knows that he has to do something, say something, but at the same time, he is suddenly very aware that regardless of how he decides to act…the outcome won’t be good. With Louis on the defence, unwilling to meet them even less than halfway, there isn’t much that can turn this around again. Technically, Harry is aware that he and Liam, together, could physically contain Louis if pushed to it, that Liam could disable lifts and doors and get JARVIS to lock up the building – to lock Louis in. 

But Louis is never going to trust him again if he goes down that route. 

Apprehending Louis in any way will create a whole amalgamation of problems, Harry is sure, but with Louis not remembering, with him just not registering or accepting that relapses have always been a possibility, and that one of them might have lead to something worse than broken furniture or, in Harry’s case, bruises – there isn’t much else for them to do but apprehend him, even if just to ensure that he doesn’t harm anyone else, or possibly himself. 

Louis isn’t going to sit here and wait for SHIELD to collect him, Harry is more than certain, and he surely is not likely to walk to SHIELD HQ with them, but those are the only two options that won’t end in –

Harry’s thoughts are abruptly cut off when Louis suddenly moves back, body stiff, eyes on them, just a few steps and he’s back in the lift, doors closing, hiding him from sight. But Harry doesn’t exhale, doesn’t feel relief, doesn’t feel like any tension is lifted at all. Instead, it increases tenfold, especially when just a beat later, the lights begin to flicker rapidly for just two seconds, before everything returns to normal – or so it seems. 

Liam curses. “He disabled the lifts,” he says, caught between surprise and awe, Harry can tell. It’s not a small feat to tinkle with things Liam’s constructed. “And is probably on his way to disable even more. We need to –” 

“No,” Harry cuts him off, because – 

Because this is it. This is as far as he’s willing to go, as far as he is able to go, and ultimately, as far as he will allow Liam to go. If Louis refuses to cooperate, refuses to work with Liam and him to figure out what triggered him, SHIELD won’t give him a hint of an inch. They won’t be interested in finding out what happened, because Walsh has convinced his shallow, fatuitous mind of Louis’ guilt with no allowance for nuance. At least Cowell had tended to bend or circumvent the rules, whereas Walsh seems more than determined to lock Louis up without further investigation, to cement his own position in a shaken-up intelligence agency struggling for direction. 

Regardless of what Louis did, and why – Harry can’t let that happen. 

“Harry,” Liam says again with urgency, “we can’t let him get away.” 

Harry turns around, meets Liam’s eyes stoically, unwavering, determined to stand his ground. “We can’t let them take him.” 

Liam’s eyes widen just minimally, and just for a moment, not in surprise, and perhaps not even in anything like exasperation, but he’s looking at Harry, begging him to not divide them any further. “Come on, Cap. Be rational. I know it’s Louis, and I know it’s hard, but this isn’t like London, and it isn’t like Washington.” 

“I know, Liam, I –” 

“I’m not sure you do,” Liam replies, left brow twitching, and he folds his arms in front of his chest, Iron Man cuff glistening like a silent threat not to push it, signaling to Harry that Liam is fully capable to stand his ground against him, or Louis, or – if pushed – even the two of them. “I’m aware your loyalty lies with him, but you have to admit that there needs to be a line. He blew up the Director, he could’ve blown up dozens of innocent people in the process, and if we let him go, who’s to say that’s not going to happen next?” 

The words lie heavily in the thickened air between them, so much that Harry feels their weight in his throat when he breathes steadily in and out to slow his heartbeat down again. It’s frightening – what he’d do for Louis, what he’d turn a blind eye to just to keep him away from harm, and Liam knows that. But he also knows that Harry wouldn’t be able to live with himself if civilians got hurt because he was shielding Louis. 

Liam takes Harry’s silence as his cue to continue. “He’s not lucid, Cap. You said it yourself, that he wasn’t himself, that he was slipping away.” He looks like he wants to step closer to Harry, perhaps comfort him in some way, but he stays put, hesitates for a moment before parting his lips again. “Maybe HYDRA messed him up so much that there’s no coming back for him. That was always a possibility, even if we were hoping it wasn’t.” 

He feels choked up. “We can’t know that for sure,” Harry presses out, desperate for Liam to agree with him but knowing that he won’t.

“We can’t, but there’s more evidence for than against it, you’ve got to admit.” Liam pulls out one of the chairs from underneath the sleek, spotless glass table and sinks down on it, whether from fatigue or to assure Harry that he isn’t going to chase after Louis right this second isn’t entirely clear. “And if he’s a loose cannon,” Liam goes on after a moment, “then it’s our duty to stop him before he can do serious damage.” 

Harry has half a mind to join Liam, sit down and stretch his legs for a few minutes, but he feels too restless. He walks past the chairs and the table, past the couple of boxes Niall had cursed about just yesterday, up to the large window front where he can see the balcony flooded with sunlight and beyond, skyscrapers glistening in the sun, reflecting a radiant blue sky. It’s a lovely day. 

“That’s right,” he speaks up eventually, letting his gaze wander over Manhattan, nothing indicating what happened downtown just mere hours ago. “It’s _our_ duty. If there’s – if there’s no chance that he might get better, then it’s up to us to help him. _Help_ him, and not lock him up, because this isn’t his fault.” His voice wavers, and Harry can’t help the guilt that creeps into his bones, penetrates his body. It will probably always be there, and he’s shared that fear with Caroline; that this crippling, sometimes even paralyzing guilt over letting Louis fall will never dissipate, no matter how many times Harry gets to wake up next to him. 

Harry shakes his head, more to himself than to Liam. “None of this is his fault, and he doesn’t deserve to get punished for it. He doesn’t deserve that SHIELD, that fucking Walsh, makes an example out of him, torments him for something he had no control over. And you’ve got to admit,” Harry says, glancing at Liam over his shoulder, “that SHIELD won’t give a shit as long as they get to lock him up and slowly tear him apart. And that’s not the right thing to do.” 

He knows that gets through to Liam, and he knows that Liam agrees with him on that front, as do the other Avengers, and that’s all Harry really needs at the moment. Regardless of what happened, Louis cannot and should not be blamed for that, and locking him up would only makes everything so much worse. With Cowell at the head of SHIELD, convincing them of that would have been a long shot. But now that Cowell is gone and Walsh has somehow weaseled his way to the top, there is no way his narrow, limited mind would allow for any other solution than punishment. 

“Then what do you suggest?” Liam asks him. “SHIELD wants him by tomorrow, and if we don’t deliver, he’s going to the top of international wanted lists and they’re going to mobilize everything they’ve got to hunt him down.” 

“They chased him for decades,” Harry retorts soberly, forcing the cogs in his head to move faster, to come up with a plan that might actually work. “They’re not going to get to him within the next week. Especially without Cowell.” 

Liam’s brows pull together, his eyes narrow, taking in what Harry is insinuating. “So you want to let him go, just like that? You want to tell SHIELD that we let him go?” 

“No,” Harry answers, turning around to face Liam fully. “I want to tell them that he’s gone. That he wasn’t here to begin with. That we have no way of knowing where he is.” 

“Which will be true if we just let him leave,” Liam exclaims, throwing up his hands. “We can’t let him leave and just hope for the best, Harry. Hope that he doesn’t snap and ends up killing someone. Or that he will just wander back to us if we so kindly ask him. That’s not a plan.” 

Harry’s aware of that. Yet he can’t help but think about last year, when he couldn’t let Louis go, and something tells him that that’s exactly what he needs to do right now. Let him go. And shoulder the consequences for him, for as long as he has to, for as long as he can. He needs to get SHIELD off Louis’ back, somehow figure out what exactly happened and if anyone else was involved. 

It’s not an unlikely scenario, Harry figures, that someone with knowledge of Louis’ condition and also conditioning might have abused that knowledge to get rid of Cowell and let another person take the fall for it. There are still plenty of HYDRA agents about, and plenty other people with a motive to have the Director killed. If that’s the case, they need to find evidence of that. If there is none…well. Then Harry needs to think of something else. 

He wants to say as much to Liam, and he wants to talk this over, to find a solution that they both can agree on as the best they can do at this point, given the situation, but before he can, Harry hears the familiar sound of jet engines going off, a quiet but noticeable whoosh echoing through the tower, and he knows what has happened even before JARVIS’ voice sounds through the room. 

_“Agent Horan and Sergeant Tomlinson have left the building in the Quinjet, Sir.”_

Liam jumps to his feet. “What? Tomlinson left with Niall?” 

_“It appears so, Sir,”_ JARVIS confirms. 

Harry and Liam share a look. “Well,” Liam sighs, holding his gaze, “looks like they’ve taken the choice right out of our hands. But – is this a good or bad thing?” 

“I have no idea,” Harry confesses, even though part of him is glad that Louis isn’t alone out there regardless of what Niall’s motivations may be. “But honestly? I doubt it can get worse than this.” 

Liam huffs. “I sure hope so, Cap. But if I’ve learned one thing in the last few years…it can _always_ get worse.”

 

 

***

 

 

It only takes zero point seven seconds after the lift doors slide shut for the situation to process and a plan to form in his head. Not quite as fast as he usually is, but too much time spent in Manhattan and doing a whole lot of nothing has made him too complacent. Taking a quick breath, he punches the emergency button, jumps, and holds onto a metal ledge on the ceiling with his right hand. He swings his left arm back, locates a weak spot and lands a solid hit, dislocating one of the metal plates. 

It’s not difficult to haul his body through the newly-formed gap, find his footing and locate the quickest route up the shaft, so he doesn’t hesitate to jump up, latching onto the steel ropes that hold the lift and now his body. He moves quickly, only two floors for now before he leaps again, pressing his body to the closed metal doors before working the fingers of his left hand into the sliver of space between them and yanking them apart. 

The floor lies ahead of him, drenched in light and eerily quiet, but Louis doesn’t stop, doesn’t allow himself to pause for even a split second before he darts towards the bedroom, to the section of the wardrobe that is his, where he’s carefully stashed away everything he needs for a quick escape. 

Tucked away in the corner of one of the top shelves is the lumpy, tattered backpack he’d found in an old truck he’d hijacked in Eastern Europe almost a year ago. The contents haven’t changed much. Two handguns with a few rounds of ammunition, a couple of knives that are more convenient in close combat, and his disassembled rifle, along with basic navigating equipment, a disposable cellphone, a spare mask and goggles. 

He makes the snap decision to change into his uniform. Mostly because of practicality, partly because he needs to get out of this damned sweatshirt. Louis throws it to the side unceremoniously, his fingers working fast to shed some layers and put on others, fastening the straps of his enforced jacket, securing one of the handguns to his belt, hiding a couple of knives in pockets and folds. 

With a familiar weight settling in his belly, he reaches for a leather glove and hides his prosthetic from view. 

Backpack secured on his body, Louis decides to forego a trip to the kitchen to get more supplies. He hasn’t got the time, and it’s not a necessity for now. He’s been well-fed, he’s reasonably hydrated, so he can put that off until he’s out of everyone’s reach. Sleep won’t be necessary for another handful of days either, which should give him a reasonable head start if everything goes according to his quickly developing plan.

He gets back to the lift, climbs another two floors to the very top level of the building where the jet is anchored. Louis almost expects Payne to appear in his suit to put a stop to his escape, but if he has assessed Harry correctly - if he has assessed this entire situation and his position in it correctly - then he should have enough time to get away while Harry and Payne argue over what to do and how to do it. 

He almost expects Payne to block his path when he steps onto the small hangar on top of the Avengers tower. What Louis doesn’t expect is to find Horan busying himself at the jet, readying it for what seems to be an imminent departure. Louis freezes, narrowing his eyes, and tries to determine what Horan is up to, what he knows, and how he can get around him and to the jet without him noticing, but the chances of that succeeding are at about seventeen percent, which is not enough for him to proceed. 

Horan is not Malik, but Louis knows he’s skilful, and Louis is aware of what a good shot he is. Hand to hand, Louis could knock him out in seconds, but he doubts he could get close enough without Horan cluing in on his presence. He’d need more than a little bit of luck, and Louis does not believe in luck. 

But regardless of whether he believes in it or not, luck doesn’t seem to be on his side anymore, because Horan turns his head, and spots him just the fraction of a second later. Louis stiffens as Horan’s eyes widen, taking in his getup that undoubtedly signals exactly what he’s up to. Horan doesn’t need to know what the others and SHIELD think he’s done to understand that he’s about to make a run for it. 

Horan smirks, and at first glance seems relaxed as he leans against the jet’s loading ramp, but Louis can pick up on small clues that indicate that he is everything but. A barely noticeable tremble in his left hand, a twitching eyebrow, a slightly manic look in his eyes he can’t quite hide. 

“Right,” he speaks up after a beat of static silence, “not planning on handing yourself over to SHIELD then, are ya?” 

So he does know, Louis realizes, which isn’t surprising, given he’d been downtown with the other two. It doesn’t explain what he’s doing up here though, with the jet, when an agent like himself should have different priorities. Horan is fuelling up the plane, making it ready for take-off - which doesn’t make any sense. 

“I didn’t do it,” Louis ends up saying, because it answers Horan’s question and explains what he is doing up here. 

Horan hums, folding his arms and taking a step forward. But he appears non-threatening, strangely apathetic given his apparent knowledge of what Louis is being accused of. 

“And I take it Cap and Payno didn’t believe you.” 

It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be. “Do you?” 

His eyes flicker across the hangar. There is no other method of transportation up here besides the jet. If Louis can’t use the jet, he’ll have to go back through the tower - past two Avengers who might be getting closer to the decision to actively stop him from leaving. And using one of Payne’s vehicles that are parked underground is going to make for a much trickier journey, but perhaps - Louis wonders, looking at Horan’s indifference - he won’t have to come up with another plan. 

Horan shrugs, gaze sweeping over the ground, sticking to his feet for a moment before finding Louis’. “Honestly? I don’t care if you did it.” 

It catches Louis by surprise so much that he feels his expression shift, something that doesn’t happen often these days. It’s not just an unexpected response, it’s also strange that it’s coming from Horan. He is aware that everyone is critical and distrustful of SHIELD and its late Director to some degree, but Louis had – up until this point – always thought Horan to be the most loyal of the Avengers, simply because he’s been a SHIELD agent the longest. 

“You don’t … ,” Louis says, slightly cautious, not entirely convinced, because he can’t figure out if he should believe it or not without more information. Past experience has made it clear that Horan isn’t one who needs much incentive to speak, so he hopes the next sentences out of Horan’s mouth will help clue Louis in. 

“Cowell had it coming,” Niall says with a shrug and a cruel line to his mouth. “If it wasn’t you, it was someone else. And if it hadn’t happened today, then it would’ve happened sooner or later. Either way, he’s dust but Zayn isn’t, and until I find him – I don’t care if it was you.” 

So that’s what it is. Louis understands, and that’s something that doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. Horan has loyalty to SHIELD, but his loyalty to Malik goes far beyond that. He’d noticed Malik’s absence, of course, but given his past and skillset, he finds it hard to believe that he’s been harmed or held somewhere against his will. Horan appears to know enough to suspect otherwise though, especially if he’s happy to shrug off Cowell’s death without further thought. 

“You don’t care,” Louis repeats, tilts his head slightly to the side, assessing, “but you’re not alerting the others, and you’re not leaving just yet.” 

The jet is ready to go, Louis can tell. It would take seconds for Horan to get in and take off, leaving Louis to his own devices. But he isn’t doing that, and he’s assessing Louis as well - that much is obvious. 

They’re both desperate. The next minutes might just show how much so. 

“No,” Horan confirms, almost as an afterthought. “No, I’m not.” 

“Why?” 

Horan takes a deep breath and takes two steps forward, closer to Louis, but there’s no tension behind, no intent. Unlike Harry just minutes ago, even though it already feels like hours.

“The only time I ever successfully tracked Zayn, I had a solid trail to follow and a shitload of luck. And he’d been shot,” Niall adds with a self-deprecating smirk. “All I’ve got right now are coordinates of where he might’ve been weeks ago, and I am trying to be realistic about my own skillset. I’m also trying to be realistic about who I might have to go up against if I do manage to find him.” 

Louis gets what he means. If Malik didn’t disappear on his own terms, if he really is being held by someone (or already dead, that is a possibility Horan understandably doesn’t want to voice), then that person, or group of people, is a serious threat. 

“You want my help,” Louis concludes. 

“I want you to find Zayn,” Horan says, expression darkening, “and help me kill whoever took him.” 

He looked stoic and determined before, but now - Horan’s eyes are practically ablaze with the promise of every horrible thing he’ll do to the person responsible for his lover’s absence. Louis has no doubt that if given the chance, he’ll tear them apart - quite literally - limb from limb. Not just kill them, but make them suffer. Louis can’t say he understands the sentiment but he certainly has no qualms about it, or helping Horan achieve that. But, at the same time -  he struggles to see how this would,  in any way, benefit him. 

“Why should I do that?” he asks because of that, lifting one of his brows, urging Horan to give him the motivation to risk his own life to save Malik’s.

“Because you didn’t come up here to have a chat,” Horan retorts, determinedly holding Louis’ gaze. “Because you want to get away, preferably without SHIELD, Cap, and Payno on your tail. Because you need the Quinjet to do that.” He’s being practical about it, and Louis appreciates Horan not trying to appeal to his humanity. “So if you help me,” he continues, “it’s yours, and I’ll even throw anyone who gets too close off your track; send them in the opposite direction, provide some distraction.” 

It’s not a bad offer. Getting out of Manhattan, out of the state or even the country with everyone on highest alert is not impossible, but inconvenient, and a hassle Louis would like to avoid. And whether Malik is dead or alive, knowing the identity of his captors would be beneficial now that he’s forced on the run. 

“I’m assuming Malik’s last position isn’t in Queens,” he says as he walks towards Horan until they’re shoulder to shoulder and lets the backpack slide off his shoulder, grabbing one of its straps. Then he swings it back and throws it up into the jet. It lands with a dull thud. 

Louis turns his head, looks at Horan’s profile, takes in the twitch of his lips before he turns his head as well, locking gazes. 

“Ever been to Colombia?”

 

 

 ***

 

 

to be continued

 

 


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Louis quirks one brow, smile wicked. “Oh my, Captain. You seem awfully tense,” drops off Louis’ lips like syrup. He gets to his feet more gracefully than Harry could ever dream of doing, even in his enhanced state, and walks closer with an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. Harry’s throat feels dry. “Maybe I can help you loosen up a little.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, but i have been swamped, and will continue to be swamped, so chapter 4 might even take longer. please do bear with me. thanks to dimples for beta'ing. 
> 
> do feel free to hit me up on my tumblr of the same name.
> 
> hope you enjoy. 
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: non-graphic description of violence, non-graphic sexy times, lots of swearing, as usual.
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags. italics are flashbacks.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

***

 

 

Harry sits and watches the sun set behind the sea of skyscrapers, feeling numb, suspended in midair. And he sits there long enough to watch it rise again. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light; squeezes them shut because they burn with tiredness, burn with something else entirely. It would be easiest to just move, even turn his head to the side. But Harry’s entire body feels hollow and fuzzy at the same time. So much so that he doesn’t even flinch when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, applying soft pressure. 

“What did Walsh say?” he asks Liam, dreading the answer and not caring about it all the same. 

“Nothing,” is Liam’s curt reply, but he elaborates after a few beats. “I had JARVIS send a notice over to SHIELD, along with access to our surveillance cameras, so they can convince themselves that he’s not here. And that Niall isn’t either.” 

“Right.” Harry supposes Walsh doesn’t want them involved any further, in no capacity whatsoever, and he’s glad for it. Originally, he’d thought they might use SHIELD focusing anywhere but on them to start tracking Louis after a few days of lying low. But with him and Niall apparently joining forces to find Zayn – it changes everything.

Harry doesn’t know what to make of it and Liam seems equally befuddled, even though they’ve not talked about it. They’ve not talked much at all, in fact, and in Harry’s case, it’s because he doesn’t know what to say. They’ve been in unforeseeable situations before, they’ve had to deal with things that had been unprecedented. And yet, somehow, they’ve always managed to figure out how to go forward, how to untangle the mess they’d gotten themselves into or had been put into by others. 

This time feels different. There are so many things happening at once, with so many people having obviously different agendas and motivations, and everyone is pulling into a different direction; making the knot in their midst tighten and tighten until it’s one solid, deadlocked mess. 

Harry knows what his priority is, or rather _who_ , but it’s perhaps not what his priority can be, or even should be. Louis taking the Quinjet with Niall should rest his nerves a little, but it’s also entirely possible that Niall didn’t invite Louis to join him - at least not voluntarily. They don’t know anything for sure at this point. 

“You should get some sleep, Cap,” Liam suggests with another squeeze to Harry’s shoulder, and Harry supposes he should. “There’s nothing we can do right now. SHIELD and Walsh are doing their own thing, and Niall is flying in stealth mode.” 

“Are you going to sleep as well?” he asks in return, because Liam is as much of an insomniac as he is, and he’s only human. 

“I’ll try,” is Liam’s honest reply. And with a last pat to Harry’s back, he turns; shuffling footsteps retreating and getting quieter until Harry is left in complete and utter silence. 

Knowing that he’s no use to anybody stretched as thin as he is right now, Harry pushes himself up, coming to a stand on heavy and stiff limbs. In moments like these, he feels his age; feels the extra seventy years that his face and body will probably never show. Dragging his feet, Harry makes his way to the lift, and up to their – up to _his_ \- floor. 

“JARVIS? Shut the blinds, please,” he says. And after a moment’s hesitation adds, “...all of them.” 

It takes less than five seconds before the sun is shut out and everything becomes dark, but Harry doesn’t need any light to find his way to the bedroom. And even without any light, he can see the rumpled sheets; proof of the two bodies that had slept there not too long ago, not together - not quite together – but side by side. 

It’s hits Harry then, straight in the chest, and after hours of numbness – it hurts. The pain spreads and it’s hot, it burns; flames licking up his throat, shortening his breath. Stumbling forward, his shins hit the bed. He sinks down onto it and digs his fingers into the duvet so hard, he fears that he might rip it to shreds. Harry hates feeling useless; hates feeling exactly like he’d felt when Louis had left him for bootcamp and he’d been fucking stuck in Brooklyn with no idea where Louis was, how he was doing, or if he was still alive. 

It’s been hours. How many exactly has slipped Harry’s mind, but it’s been almost a day since Niall and Louis took off in the Quinjet and by now, they could be literally anywhere. They could be on any damn continent and - if they weren’t working together, if Niall had merely given Louis a ride - Louis could be using the next couple of hours to put even more distance between them. 

Harry drops his face into his open palms, rubs his tired eyes and groans internally. It’s what he wanted, letting Louis go - rather than have him suffer at the hands of SHIELD again - but it’s... it’s jarring. In the last half year, Harry has seemingly forgotten how to be without him. He’s forgotten what it feels like not to have Louis close. Not as close as he used to, but close enough – close enough for now. 

He’s forgotten that being without Louis feels like his ribcage is being forced open. 

Harrys swallows, wetting his dry and itchy throat, and pulls his shirt over his head. He holds it in his hand for a moment; drinking in the dark, drinking in the deafening silence that has gripped the entire building, but especially this room in particular. Deciding not to be completely useless, Harry gets up and moves to put his clothes in the hamper in the bathroom - but something catches his eye before he’s taken more than two steps. 

It’s his sweatshirt. 

 Somehow - inexplicably really, because it’s nothing but a dark lump on the floor - Harry immediately knows that it’s his ratty old sweatshirt.  The one that Louis had claimed as his even before he’d left the first time. The one he’d basically lived in right up until yesterday. His own shirt falls to the floor and it stays there, forgotten, as Harry reaches for the lump of soft jersey; material achingly familiar beneath his fingertips. 

He buries his face in it, doesn’t have the willpower not to. 

It still smells like Louis. And somehow, it still holds his warmth, even if he hadn’t shown any in the last handful of weeks. Harry isn’t proud of it, but he knows it’s the only way he might actually get a few hours of sleep. And so, he falls heavily onto the mattress - onto Louis’ side - and holds the sweatshirt to his chest...his face...and closes his eyes.

 

 

_The air is heavy – heady – with tobacco; the smoke that blurs contours, that obscures his view, makes his eyes sting and water slightly. But where just a few months ago it would have thrown him headfirst into a terrible asthma attack, it now does barely more than tickle his throat._

_Having changed out of his flashy, three-colored uniform - and into the more nondescript khaki pants and jacket that all of the other soldiers wear off-duty - he fortunately doesn’t draw much attention to himself when he enters the crowded, noisy pub down the street from their temporary housing. Or rather, he doesn’t turn heads - doesn’t garner the obvious kind of attention that he receives when he is dressed up as Captain America. But Harry notices numerous pairs of eyes on him; dames looking him up and down with interest - something that hasn’t exactly happened to him before. And if Harry’s being honest, something he isn’t particularly comfortable with, but he keeps standing on the spot because it takes him a moment to find the rest of the Howling Commandoes huddled together in the far side of the place._

_He makes his way over to them, dodging chairs and stray legs and elbows. Ed is slouched into an old leather armchair, guitar draped over his lap, and he’s absentmindedly plucking at its strings with one hand while nursing a pint with the other. Stan and Tom are on a stained ottoman that saw its glory days two hundred years ago and probably isn’t part of the original pub furnishing. But glancing around, it seems like the owners have had to improvise a lot when it comes to seating arrangements. James and Johnny are on the right, standing with heads bent together, talking close to each other’s ears to beat the noise from the crowd and music blasting from several radios in each corner._

_Only Louis is missing._

_Even though Ed looks like he’s half asleep, he seems to instantly catch the line between his brows and, with a smirk, he nods over to the bar without saying a single word. But he doesn’t have to. As soon as Harry turns his head, his eyes zero in on Louis. Well - they zero in on Louis and a rather pretty lady with bright lipstick, glossy hair and a full bosom, emphasized by her stance._

_They’re only talking and Louis is smiling politely, keeping a polite distance despite the young dame leaning forward in an obvious attempt to draw his attention to her best assets. He’s clearly just waiting to be served, and Harry should really not be bothered by it._

_But he is._

_He’s never been good sharing Louis’ attention. It’s not surprising that Louis is approached, given how handsome he looks in his uniform. No, not handsome – beautiful. He looks beautiful tonight, even more than usual; clean-shaven and his hair artfully swept back, the interplay between flickering light and shadows emphasizing his cheekbones. Harry can see his bright eyes sparkle even from where he’s standing._

_Harry shouldn’t make a scene. He can’t actually, and he doesn’t plan to. But he also doesn’t want to stand here and watch his man be flirted at by someone else. His comrades’ chuckles following him, Harry walks over to the bar and positions right by Louis’ shoulder, putting himself subtly between Louis and the woman who is obviously trying to charm him. Two pairs of eyes land on him, but Harry only catches one, and he also catches the ghost of a smirk curl around Louis lips._

_Of course he’s pleased. Inside, he’s probably laughing at Harry as well. And Harry can’t say he doesn’t love him for it._

_Harry clears his throat, and turns to the lady. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to have a few words with my second-in-command.”_

_She looks more than a little put out, narrowing her eyes at him before glancing at Louis who only offers up an apologetic smile. With a shrug of her shoulders and a quiet huff, she pushes away from the bar and disappears into the crowd. Harry doesn’t hesitate to move closer to Louis, hand briefly touching his forearm that’s resting on the bar._

_“You need to have words, do ya?”_

_Harry can hear the grin in Louis’ voice and he can feel the blush creeping up to his cheeks, so he keeps his eyes on his hands, pale against the dark and damp wood of the counter. Louis’ light and raspy laugh fills his ears and it makes him feel a bit sheepish, a little stupid. But he’s not going to apologize for chasing that dame away. Louis would have done the same, so he should stop laughing before Harry reminds him._

_Then, under his breath, voice entirely devoid of humor, Louis mutters, “You look so fucking good in that uniform”, and Harry’s blood runs hot._

_He turns his head, catches Louis’ heated gaze. The bartender finally puts a tumbler of whiskey down in front of him - neat with no ice - but Louis doesn’t pay attention to it. Harry feels the pull between them. It’s always there, no matter if they’re close together or far apart. But in this moment, it’s so tangible it might as well be a rope tying them together._

_Looking at Harry with such intensity that he feels stripped bare, utterly exposed and equally aroused, Louis blindly reaches for his drink and without breaking eye contact, tosses it back with one swig - not even pulling a face as the undoubtedly strong liquor runs down his throat._

_“Louis –”_

_“There’s an unused storage room in the back,” Louis cuts him off, face flushed from the alcohol -or something else entirely. “Ed’s keeping an eye out. I’m going there now.” He sets the glass back down onto the counter with a thud that’s barely audible amongst the noises of the people surrounding them - as is his voice, which is definitely intentional. He doesn’t look at Harry as he pushes away from the bar. “In two minutes, you’ll follow me.”_

_Then he turns around and walks, past where their friends and comrades are sitting and around a corner, disappearing from sight. Harry’s heart is thudding heavily, sending blood through his veins with increasing speed until it rushes in his ears, drowning out all the voices mingling together, except for the song blasting from the radio - where a woman is crooning in a deep voice, ‘We’re dancing like we used to do, making believe is just another way of dreaming’. And Harry listens to the words, lets them penetrate his brain as his eyes remain glued to the clock behind the bar, counting the seconds._

_Just under two minutes later, Harry’s patience runs out and he struggles to compose himself as he walks through the crowd. Ignoring the looks their friends throw his way, Harry rounds a corner and finds himself at the beginning of a long and dark corridor; a sliver of light shining through a gap between floor and a door that’s situated right at the end of it. Nearly vibrating out of his skin, blood rapidly shooting down towards his nether regions, he realizes that’s where Louis is waiting for him and it clouds his head with want._

_He has no time for pretense, doesn’t care about playing it cool, so he strides down the corridor with large and hastened steps until he can finally close his hand around the cold metal doorknob. Harry pushes the door open_ _and freezes - breath hitching - even though Louis is just sitting there casually on a rickety stepladder, face half in the shadows because the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling doesn’t do much to illuminate the little room that’s more of a glorified cupboard really._

_Uneven shelves house seemingly everything from canned beans to old rags and even unused mousetraps. There are old pots of paint on the dirty floorboard, brooms and mops leaning against the wall in the far right corner. It’s not exactly the ideal place for a romantic_ _tête-à-tête, but then again – Louis didn’t ask him to come here for romance._

_They’ve been doing this for months now, going off on missions with the Howling Commandoes. Only rarely returning to London, which has become their home base, and only rarely surrounded by anyone but their friends. But out on the battlefield, there is no time for anything other than a prolonged gaze, a squeezing of hands. And in between, even when they’re not actively planning and preparing their next operation, opportunity to spend some untarnished time together has been sparse. It’s starting to gnaw at Harry, and these brief moments he gets to share with Louis do nothing more than to release momentary tension and increase his ache and desire tenfold all the same._

_It will be a few minutes of relief, followed by the encompassing need to stay close to Louis; to hold him, touch him, be with him like they’d been in their cheap and awful but heavenly apartment in Brooklyn. The longer this war rages on, the more Harry fears that they might never return to that._

_Harry pushes those worries to the back of his mind and takes in how even surrounded by what is essentially a load of junk, Louis manages to look absolutely breathtaking, lips still wet with whiskey.  Relaxed at first glance, but now that Harry looks closer, steps closer and shuts the door behind him, he can tell that Louis’ body is thrumming with tension, bubbling beneath his skin._

_Louis quirks one brow, smile wicked. “Oh my, Captain. You seem awfully tense,” drops off Louis’ lips like syrup. He gets to his feet more gracefully than Harry could ever dream of doing, even in his enhanced state, and walks closer with an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. Harry’s throat feels dry. “Maybe I can help you loosen up a little.”_

_Says it, and sinks to his knees without further preamble._

_Harry thinks he’s this close to swallowing his tongue as he breathes in harshly and presses his back into the solid wood of the door, helplessly staring down at Louis whose fingers make quick work of his belt and fly. The air in here is far from cold, and instead unusually warm and humid, dampness sticking to the wall from perhaps leaky pipes or faulty heating. But it’s still a shock to his bare skin when Louis pulls his pants and underwear down to his knees with one strong pull._

_Just seeing Louis like this is enough to get Harry quickly and fully aroused, but Louis also doesn’t waste a second before diving in - prompting Harry to let his head fall back, eyes falling shut because if he looks at Louis for another second, he’s sure to reach his climax embarrassingly fast._

_But it seems that’s exactly what Louis wants to happen, not resorting to his usual routine of skillful ministrations and agonizing teasing and drawing it out and out and out until Harry could barely keep himself on his feet, lips bitten red and mind so hazy he’d be unable to string together enough syllables. Instead, he uses his hands and mouth and tongue, a hint of teeth, to bring Harry to the edge in what might be record time._

_Harry’s hands grapple for something to hold onto, desperately wanting to run his fingers through the soft strands of Louis’ hair, but he can’t actually mess it up, can’t give into the desire to grab and pull a little, just like he knows Louis likes. So Harry balls his hands into fists, digs his nails into his palms and masquerades a moan as a cough when Louis suddenly pushes his hands against Harry’s thighs and sinks down._

_It’s over in a flash. Harry is out of breath and sweaty when Louis pulls his pants back up and gets to his feet, quickly ducking down to brush some dust and dirt of his undoubtedly sore knees. Harry doesn’t hesitate to grab him by the collar, yanking him in and catching his lips open-mouthed, desperate to draw out this moment for as long as possible. Louis tastes salt_ _y and sharp, still traces of whiskey lingering on his tongue._

_“We have to get back,” Louis presses against his lips after a far too short amount of time, pulling back too quickly for Harry to reel him back in._

_“Do you not want me to –”_

_Louis shakes his head, cutting him off with a quick smile, adjusting his uniform once more before reaching past Harry to take a hold of the doorknob. “Later,” he says and waits for Harry to move away from the door in a daze, opening it._

_Suddenly, the noises from the bar attack Harry’s ears again, strangely muffled, pushed to the back of his mind for the past minutes. But now he is once again aware of only one thin wall dividing them from the raucous crowd, glasses clinking, voices carrying over the same song still blasting from the various radios._

_(It’s not the same song. It was definitely playing that night, and the words stick in his head and remain there up to this day, but Harry can’t remember if it played as he entered the bar, or as he left it, or what time in between.)_

_He misses Louis the second there are more than just a few inches between them, his lover stepping out into the murky corridor before him and not lingering, not turning back around before striding back towards the pub’s main room. Harry does linger, for various reasons. They shouldn’t be going back to the party together, looking as dishevelled as Harry is currently feeling. And because of that, he also wants a few moments to collect himself, to stop his blood from boiling, and to force the heat from his cheeks._

_He leans back, and lets his eyes wander across the opposite wall that’s mostly hidden in the shadows, where old, floral wallpaper that’s yellowed with age is flaking and peeling off. Photographs and news clippings have been framed but neglected enough to have collected so much dust Harry can hardly make out the writing and pictures. A brass candle holder is mounted to the wall, next to two dents that look like bullet holes._

_Harry breathes in, and he smells dust, mould, the sharpness of liquor and tobacco. Louis hasn’t left anything behind. He breathes out, and closes his eyes._

When he opens his eyes again, Harry is lying on his back, chest aching, and his room is dark. Rain is hitting the windows, blurring the world that lies beyond the tower and blurring the memories that a second ago had filled his head, and even more so his heart. He doesn’t bother to look at the time. It’s the dead of night, the storm raging outside so dark that even Manhattan is dimmed. 

Harry grabs the edge of his duvet and rolls to the side, curling up in it. He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see the empty side of the bed, presses his face into his pillow so that he doesn’t have to smell anything, but he still hears that song; hears a warm and sorrowful voice crooning, _‘I’ll whisper “Good Night”, turn out the light, and kiss my pillow, making believe it’s you’_.

 

 

***

  

 

It’s only a matter of seconds before New York disappears and the sky opens up ahead. The jet is quick to accelerate and reach ideal altitude as Horan sets the course with a few practiced flicks to the dashboard, expression hard with concentration, lips pressed thin with tension. 

Louis doesn’t move an inch, but he does let his gaze wander around to take in what Horan has packed, what sort of equipment he might have at his disposal, and he’s quick to calculate how quickly he could reach any of it. Something else he allows his mind to assess is the probability for his success should he decide to take over the jet in mid-flight, knock Horan out and abort the mission, take a different course and head somewhere that is even farther out of SHIELD’s reach than Colombia. 

Naturally, physically apprehending Horan should not be an issue, even if he were to get his hands on a weapon before Louis could overpower him. Horan is a skilful fighter, but one on one, and short distance, his chances of gaining the upper hand against Louis lie close to zero percent. His current emotional state is just another disadvantage, Horan’s thoughts elsewhere and although he – as an agent – has very quick reflexes and is to some degree always alert, Louis turning against him isn’t at the forefront of his mind. 

It would be far more convenient for Louis to not have to go on a wild goose chase to find Malik, to go his own way and come up with a long-term strategy on how to stay under SHIELD’s and the Avengers’ radars. But on the other hand, Horan and Malik did play a significant part in securing Louis a position within SHIELD that up until now had been reasonably comfortable, even if not entirely ideal. It doesn’t exactly demand the kind of loyalty Cowell had been seeking from him, but helping Horan now repays any debt Louis might have and wipes the slate clean. 

He fixes his eyes on the sky, at first glance not a cloud in sight, but in the far distance, at the moment just a hint of grey at the horizon, is the promise of rain. Thankfully, they’re heading in the opposite direction, although Louis can’t help but wonder if the rain season has hit Colombia yet, or if that will even be of any consequence for them whatsoever. Malik might have only been in Colombia for a day, a few hours even. 

South America has stabilized significantly, and it sure as hell ain’t the Middle East or Central Africa, but with difficult terrains like the Amazon and the Andes colliding, it makes it hard to navigate but very easy to disappear. Finding a needle in a haystack is child’s play in comparison to attempting to find someone like Malik when, according to Horan, he either doesn’t want to be found or is being held by someone SHIELD was unable to identify. 

Which reminds him. 

“How did you manage to narrow down his last location?” he asks outright, but Horan doesn’t react at all for a few beats. The only indicator that he’s even heard the question is a barely visible twitch of his right brow. From his position to the right of and slightly behind where Horan is flying the jet, Louis can’t make out much else. 

“Satellite phone,” Horan says eventually, and he seems reluctant to go on for a moment, but Louis guesses it dawns on him that giving Louis all the information is necessary to ensure that they can make progress as quickly as possible, get moving as soon as they’re on the ground. “Zayn sent a coded message, but he diverted it, had it jump all over the place so it couldn’t be traced back to his location.” 

“But you managed to trace it back?” 

Horan shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I tried to decode the message. For weeks. Ran it through a couple of systems, tried simple tricks, code words and things I know Zayn’s good at.” 

He laughs to himself, quietly and briefly, a self-deprecating tone to it. “Took me a while to figure out that I shouldn’t have been looking at the ciphers, but the spaces between them.” Louis gets it before Horan elaborates, but he sits quietly anyway. He’s feels like listening for a while more. “Morse code. Coordinates.” 

“For somewhere in Colombia,” Louis concludes and Horan nods. 

“About a hundred and fifty miles north west of Bogotá.” 

Louis lets it sink into his head, visualizes it on a map. It’s been a while since he’s been to South America, but he is very certain that those coordinates would place Malik somewhere near the Magdalena river at the time, but most likely not anymore. 

“How likely is it that he is still anywhere near that location?” Louis decides to voice his thoughts. 

This time, Horan does look back at him, if only for a few seconds, seemingly deliberating his answer once again. Horan trusts him, but perhaps not entirely. “Not very,” he ends up saying, turning to look out the windshield again. “But he wants me to go there, I’m sure about it.” 

“How?” 

If Louis is going to risk his life, he wants all the answers, and he wants all the reasoning behind Horan’s actions and decisions to ensure his judgment isn’t completed clouded by emotion. 

“It was a message for me,” is the reply, no hesitation at all this time. “This wasn’t for SHIELD, this wasn’t for anyone else. The sole purpose of this message was to get my attention, and to transmit this location. Zayn won’t be there, I’m pretty sure he won’t, but he found out something, and he knew something might happen to him, and I’m pretty damn sure he left me a clue, perhaps even a trail of them.” 

So it really _is_ going to be a wild goose chase, Louis thinks sourly, and he’s unable to share Horan’s optimism regarding Malik’s ability to leave anything for them to find weeks after his disappearance. If there are any clues, they won’t be solid, and it will require intelligence gathering he is usually spared of. Louis isn’t a spy. He’s the one who hunts them down and kills them. But well. He’s also adaptable. 

It would help if they knew who they were dealing with. “Who do you think he was on to? Anything of interest to SHIELD in Colombia?” 

Horan’s responding snort is loud enough to echo through the cabin despite the engine noise. “Fucked if I know. They’ve really clamped down on drug trafficking, not that SHIELD was involved in that kind of work. Illegal emerald trade’s a thing, but that’s bollocks as well. I’m just –” 

He cuts himself off abruptly. Louis’ eyes narrow looking at how Horan presses his lips together firmly, and he can practically hear how his mind is churning. 

“You’re just what?” 

A muscle in Horan’s jaw twitches. Silence stretches on like the sky in front of them, but they have time, and Louis is patient. But, as it turns out just a few minutes later – he doesn’t have to be. 

“Do you know what the Red Room is?” he ends up asking in return, which Louis finds – odd. They are both aware that Louis knows what the Red Room is by default. He has not been very forthcoming with regards to the extent of his knowledge, or any further details, to be fair. But he has generally not been very forthcoming with _any_ information that he has classified as inconsequential. 

There are a number of answers that would satisfy Horan that don’t contain anything that Louis does not want to share, and that would not make his life more difficult, but as much as Horan is testing the waters, Louis wants to test them too. 

Which is why he says, “My memories can’t be trusted. I’m an amnesiac, remember?” 

Horan hums in response and for a moment, Louis thinks that’s his response, but then he suddenly looks over his shoulder again. Their gazes lock not for very long, but for long enough for a small, cold knot to form in Louis’ chest when he reads Horan’s expression, and the steeliness of his eyes. 

“I’m not so sure you are,” he tells Louis, and the words carry with them a deeper meaning Horan might not understand fully yet, but it’s there. But he doesn’t add to it, does not elaborate on that sober note but turns back around to focus on piloting the jet and getting their conversation back on track. 

“Zayn has made plenty of enemies,” he goes on. “Most of them peanuts in comparison, and of no actual threat to him, or SHIELD, or any of us. But the Red Room…it runs deep. And the people who were involved with it have the skills, the expertise, and most importantly, they have the patience to lay low for years to slowly spin a fucking web around all of us.” 

It’s the old guard, is what Horan means to say. People who aren’t pragmatic like Winston was. Someone who saw an opportunity and grabbed it for no other reason than because he could, because he was arrogant, technically an outsider who might have controlled HYDRA for years, but who never really fully understood it. Any remains of the Red Room would be willing to set entire continents on fire only to get revenge on the guy who betrayed them and showed them up. 

Taking out Cowell would almost be an afterthought for them, SHIELD plunging into disorder as a result merely convenient, but of no further importance. It does make sense to suspect that whatever leftovers remain of the Red Room are behind Malik’s disappearance. 

But it’s the location that’s throwing him off. The Red Room trained its agents to operate internationally, but their stronghold had always been Eastern Europe, and that’s also where most former but still loyal members and agents remain, some filtering over to HYDRA, others sinking deep into Russian intelligence. If they had spent months or even years plotting their revenge, they would have lured Malik back onto home soil. It would certainly enhance the theatricality as well. And even though the Russians would be quick to deny it – they love a bit of drama. 

“Colombia is an odd place to choose if it is the Red Room,” Louis states. 

“Do you think I don’t fuckin’ know that?” Horan snaps at him, but a second later already utters an apology under his breath. “Fuck, sorry, okay? I know, alright,” he says with a weary sigh. “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but that’s all I can come up with. HYDRA is all but in pieces, and the ones we’ve not caught are being surveilled, so it can’t be them, and I’ve gone through all of Zayn’s missions, at least the ones I know of, and those people are dead or locked up.” 

It’s not difficult to discern how distressed Horan is, or how long he has been digging through Malik’s files to find even the hint of a clue, without any success. The frustration was evident before, but it’s tangible now, hanging heavy in the air, swallowing up oxygen. 

“I know fuck all about his past before SHIELD, apart from the information fucking SHIELD handed to me when they told me to eliminate him. Zayn’s told me next to nothing about his life before then, even though I’ve told him everything about mine.” Horan’s voice grows thick, and Louis doesn’t feel comfortable with that. It throws him off. 

“You show too much sentiment,” he makes the mistake of saying. It comes as an almost natural reaction to this sudden display of vulnerability, his own words familiar but ringing as someone else’s in his ear, less of a statement and much more a barked order, heavily accented. 

“And you don’t show enough,” Horan throws back, and exhales on a joyless chuckle. “Fuck, I don’t even know how Harry can look at you sometimes. I can barely look at Zayn when he’s this –” 

He trails off and then falls silent, doesn’t finish the sentence. But he doesn’t have to. Louis doesn’t want him to, because he does believe that sentiment should have no place here, only obscures Horan’s judgement and ability to think rationally. He’s already struggling not to be overcome with emotion now, and the probability that he will be overwhelmed by it if Malik has come to any harm is far too high for Louis’ liking. 

They don’t speak again for a long while, Horan too caught up with his own thoughts, and Louis is concentrating on assembling a number of strategies to pursue once they hit the ground. But Horan’s words stick to him, and they echo in his head, refusing to quiet down.

_“I don’t even know how Harry can look at you sometimes.”_

If Louis is being honest, he doesn’t either.

 

 

The air outside is humid when they land. Louis doesn’t even need to leave the jet to tell, clouds hanging low and outlines fuzzy, moisture instantly clinging to the windshield as Horan directs the in-stealth-mode jet to a secluded woodland area a few miles east of the Magdalena River. They reach a silent consensus that they would stick out like a sore thumb in their SHIELD attire and only attract unwanted attention and suspicion, so Louis swaps his uniform jacket for a run-of-the-mill t-shirt, the tattered parka he’d fished out of a garbage bin somewhere in Jersey and a stained baseball hat. 

He keeps his glove on. 

With Horan swapping his attire for trekking boots, cargo pants and anorak, they both look, to the untrained eye, like two regular tourists. But Louis is aware that if they run into trained agents, or ex-agents – their disguise won’t hold up. That might not be a bad thing though. 

He and Horan don’t communicate much as they pack up and conceal their weapons as well as other supplies they might need. As Louis suspected, the air is wet, and even with the sun beginning to set, it’s still well over ninety degrees, sweat starting to bead at his hairline even though he feels perfectly fine. Horan’s cheeks fill with blood, a sheen covers his face the moment he exits the jet, ensuring that its stealth mode will continue to conceal it in the unlikely event of someone stumbling over it. Louis hopes he won’t become a liability in these conditions, and that the rain season will not start early this year, literally washing away any traces Malik might have left behind. 

They go west, staying off any roads but veering close enough to hear the occasional car tires on uneven gravel. Louis walks ahead and sets a fast pace, but Horan has no problem keeping up, as much trying to prove himself to Louis as Louis is trying to test him by doing that. They haven’t been on any other operations together, so Louis uses the first hour to internalise the huff of Horan’s breath, the rhythm of his walk. There’s a minimal irregularity to the steps, Horan putting more weight on the right leg, probably down to a persistent injury to his left, something, Louis realises displeased, that he hadn’t noticed before. 

He’s been programmed to pick up weak spots whenever he encounters anyone new. Horan hides this physical flaw well, but that is no excuse for Louis not picking up on it until now. He files the information away for the moment. It might become useful if this operation takes an unexpected turn. 

Malik’s trail ends in Puerto Boyacá, a small town right on the river’s edge that they reach just as the sun has sunk below the horizon. They earn a handful of curious glances as they trail along one of main roads, scarcely lit by street lamps and small stores that are still open, carefully observing the area, but nothing more, most people happy to be on their way after a long day of work. 

Horan leads the way into a small convenience store, neon sign hanging askew and flickering restlessly, a buzz filling Louis’ head and making him feel mildly on edge. As Horan collects bottles of water and whatever else he deems necessary to uphold their cover, Louis lets his eyes wander as he leans against the door jamb, caught between the damp, weak evening breeze and the sparse tufts of cooler air coming from the air conditioning unit wedged into one of the dirty corners of the store. 

Across the street, a few dozen palm trees obscure his view, leaves rustling quietly, throwing shadows onto the already dark concrete. But even in the dark, with barely any lights illuminating their surroundings, Louis can see cracks in walls and flaking paint, political posters that have been so thoroughly defaced that they’ve become illegible. Comparatively, peace hasn’t resided here for very long, and it shows, traces of conflict between government and guerrilla still evident in the lack of cosmetic care that has been applied to this town. 

People are glad to be leading a normal life. They don’t care how it looks to outsiders, particularly the tourists he and Horan appear to be. 

Louis doubts that this is a holiday hotspot, but he figures visitors are still frequent enough to make the looks a man hiding in the shadow of a palm tree just a few yards is giving him suspicious. He lets his eyes wander, trained to keep the man in his peripheral vision, observing him without being obvious about it. 

The conflicts may be over, political unrest defeated for the time being, but just like with agents of the Red Room, those involved have not disappeared. They’ve moved on to make an honest living, but they’ve kept their spirit, their connections, and Louis knows that for the right kind of money, or the right kind of incentive, they’re quickly seduced back onto the other side of the law. 

The man believing he’s being subtle, glimmering cigarillo between his lips, jaw covered with days old stubble, doesn’t appear to have considered becoming a law-abiding citizen for even a moment, trucker hat pulled deep into his weathered face. He is not a trained agent – far from it – but he holds himself in a way that tells Louis he’s used to keeping watch, to lying low and observing. But he’s not used to observing people who can spend more than forty-eight hours without moving until it’s time to pull the trigger. 

He drops his gaze, and his still smouldering cigarillo, and a moment after, Horan steps up next to him, stuffing something into his backpack and popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

“We’ve been noticed,” Louis mutters under his breath without looking at Horan, and he folds his arms in front of his chest, still feels the difference between his two limbs but pays no mind to it anymore. 

Horan steps around him and out onto the barely distinguishable sidewalk, pulls his body into a stretch, groans. “Anything we need to worry about right away?” he asks, comes out of his stretch, scratching his chin and appearing very nonchalant, keeping in line with their cover as unassuming tourists. 

Louis shakes his head no and pushes off the door jamb. 

“Good,” Horan says about that and starts walking. “Because I am fucking knackered. Got up at arse o’clock this morning and haven’t had a bite to eat either. And you don’t want to endure me when I’m tired _and_ bloody starving.” 

Louis doubts it would in any way affect his way to endure Horan, but he leaves it unsaid. He doesn’t feel tired or hungry yet, the time at the tower giving him large amounts of reserves to draw on. But this is Horan’s mission, and Louis is content to do it his way, at least until it becomes obvious that it’s negatively impacting the operation. 

So he lets Horan lead them to a small, rundown hostel not far away from what he assumes to be the town centre, where Horan books a room with some bundled up cash he must have already been carrying with him. The middle-aged woman with hair greying at the temples barely looks at them before handing over a rusty key, giving directions in broken English. 

The room itself is as rundown as the hostel, with uneven floorboards, a flapping ceiling fan, two crooked chairs and a bunkbed with yellowed sheets. It’s far from the worst place Louis has ever seen. Horan is equally nonplussed as he throws his backpack on the bottom punk and peels out of his jacket, skin reddened and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

Louis puts his bag on one of the chairs and it groans with the added weight. The rickety, single-glass window slides open to reveal the view over a small backyard and buildings of various heights, with varying types of roofing, some flat, some angled. It’s too far to jump from the window straight over onto the next building, but the drop is just two floors. Looking up and down, Louis can also see plenty of windowsills and pipes that could make an ascent very easy. 

Horan is sitting on the top bunk, legs dangling off the side and eating what looks to be a protein bar, head crooked to the side as he watches Louis in return. It’s not an uncomfortable atmosphere, but there are many things left unspoken in the humid air between them, and Louis is not sure when Horan might decide to bring that up. He seems content for now, tired but alert, and ready to track Malik down. 

Louis decides to leave Horan to ponder over it, and come up with a plan of what to do next, so he shrugs out of his parka, grabs his bag and heads out of the room. Down the hall, right at the end, is a communal bathroom, fortunately empty. He locks the door behind himself, flicks on the lights, and pulls his shirt over his head with one quick motion. Louis doesn’t feel warm, his mind conditioned to phase out distractions, but his body still reacts naturally, sweat making his skin sticky and hair curling at the ends from the moisture in the warm evening air. 

He still doesn’t like showers, the sensation of water hitting his skin an uncomfortable one, so he takes less than a minute to stand under the cold spray to wash the remains of the day off of him. Pushing his hair out of his face, he drips onto the tiles and doesn’t bother with a towel before walking up to the sink, split mirror hanging above it. 

His face is sharp these days. It’s filled in a little since joining SHIELD, but Louis is sure he won’t regain the softness his features used to hold back in the day. It doesn’t matter to him though. He doesn’t recognize himself either way. With practiced ease, he drags the straight razor across his cheeks to get rid of the facial hair he’s allowed to grow recently. But even without the stubble, clean shaven and seemingly put together, Louis struggles to reconcile his appearance with – everything. It doesn’t feel like looking in the mirror. He’s looking at someone he thinks he remembers knowing, a long time ago, but that person has been consumed, swallowed down and spit out again, each time losing a part. 

He is fractured, but he is not the sum of those broken parts. He is the splintered off pieces, the dirt and debris that has fallen in between the cracks, rotting away from daylight.   

And what a fucking miserable existence that is.

 

  

Horan has moved to the windowsill when Louis comes back to their room for the night. He’s got some paper between his hands, a small jar of what at first glance appears to be tobacco, although Louis doubts what Horan is rolling is just a simple cigarette. Stepping closer, Louis can smell the sweetness. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Horan says with an eye roll, though Louis isn’t aware that there was anything to read into his gaze. His expression tends to be schooled, neutral, intended not to give anything away. Dropping his things to the floor, he is for the fraction of a second distracted by the glimmer of his arm catching the overhead light. His glove is in his backpack for now, sleeves of his Henley rolled up. Usually, Louis makes sure to cover the vibranium. He isn’t sure why he hasn’t done so now. 

“My pulse is racing,” Horan goes on without prompting, “and if I want an hour or two of sleep, I need to mellow out a little. You smoke?” 

He’s seen Louis smoke regular tobacco with Malik on multiple occasions, so Louis knows he is referring to marijuana. Louis shrugs. He hasn’t, and it won’t do anything to his body, just like regular nicotine. These days Louis mainly smokes because it is familiar; because it’s the only familiar thing from – before. 

“It’s good stuff,” Horan says before licking the ends and lighting it up. “Zayn got it a few months ago, Lord knows where. ‘S how he winds down after a mission; smokes up, sleeps for ages, and he’s rejuvenated.” He takes a drag, slow and deep, exhales through his teeth. “I’m usually good just knockin’ back a few pints, but well,” Horan pulls a face, “I guess living with him made me develop a taste for it too.” 

Louis doesn’t understand why he feels the need to chatter. Or rather, he does understand why, he’d just prefer Horan to refrain from it. This holds no relevance to their mission. And as much as Louis has found Malik to be tolerable, he is not interested in anecdotes from his other half. 

“Does Harry smoke?” 

It takes Louis a moment to react. “He had asthma.” 

Horan hums. “Right. I always forget he used to be this wimpy little thing that a strong breeze could have blown over. Got to be weird for you though, right?” 

Louis can’t really answer that, so he doesn’t, any talk regarding Harry generally unwelcome on his part. The difference between Harry before and after the serum is significant, but as much as Louis has both images in his mind, their contrast doesn’t evoke what Horan might suspect it does. He isn’t sure what answer Horan wants from him, what he expects him to say and with what level of emotional attachment or nostalgia. 

Thankfully, Horan doesn’t push him to say anything. He continues to puff away, eyes on Louis, but Louis doesn’t hold his gaze, and instead lets his glide over the surrounding buildings, the odd window still alight here and there. 

“I don’t think you did it, by the way.” 

This does make him look at Horan. When their eyes meet, Horan’s pupils are blown, but not out of focus, everything else about him still sharp and alert. He doesn’t need to specify what he is talking about. Louis lifts his left brow in question, prompting the archer to go on. 

“Planting a bomb. Not really your style, is it?” 

His other brow rises as well. “Isn’t it? Might not have been my choice.” 

“Sure,” Horan concedes flippantly, finishing up and throwing the bud out the window. “But even if you were a sleeper, even if someone knew how to trigger you and planted the command to off Cowell…” He trails off, thoughtful, just for a moment. “I think you would have shot him. Right between the eyes. Maybe strangled him for some added drama. Either way, conscious or not, you would’ve made sure he saw you before you switched off his lights.” 

It’s an interesting line of thought. Horan continues to surprise him, and Louis can’t deny that he’s got it spot on. He doesn’t make the error to confirm Horan’s theory, doesn’t confide in him, doesn’t share one of the many scenarios that Louis has come up with, in which he makes his life easier and harder all the same by finding Cowell in his office, catching him off guard. Closing in on him, and relishing the way realization would dawn on his face the moment Louis would close his hand around his neck and squeeze.

Leaving Manhattan and everything else behind for the only life he knows how to lead, just like he’s done now. 

He guesses it’s ironic, facing the same consequences with none of the pleasure of hearing someone’s spine crack beneath his fingers.

 

 

***

 

 

_to be continued_

 

 

 

 


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Flickering in his irises, vibrant like a movie. Terror that outshines even the fear of immediate death. This man would rather get his neck broken right here, right now, than go wherever he’s sent Malik. 
> 
> “Because the people who go there,” he says after a long pause that is filled by nothing but the rustling of the trees that surround them. Even the bar is dead silent. “They no come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i whipped out half of this chapter in the last two days, because i will have to spend all of november and most of december writing up my thesis so i can get my third degree, which means the next update might be a while. for that, i apologise. 
> 
> i do hope you enjoy this chapter. things are finally moving forward a bit. 
> 
> thanks goes to dimples for enduring my rambling, for being my guinea pig, and for beta'ing this at lightning speed. 
> 
> feel free to say hi on tumblr. 
> 
> ta!
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: graphic description of violence, lots of swearing, as usual.
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags. italics are flashbacks.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

 

 

 

 

They leave their little room through the window just past one o’clock in the morning. Horan, after a short nap and a mountain of protein bars, seems once again full of again, eager to go, and so they cross half the town via numerous walls and roofs towards where they assume the more deplorable fraction of its inhabitants flocks to after dark. In the near pitch blackness of the night, rainclouds hanging low, every source of light feels draws the eye.

Louis lets Horan lead the way. He’s confident enough in him and his experience to feel sure about him finding whatever watering hole might produce the kind of crooked figure who’d know anything about Malik’s presence. And, once they reach the tattered outskirts of the town, it’s not hard to locate. After all, this isn’t Bogotá. 

Calling it a watering hole is generous, Louis observes from the other side of the dirt track that leads out of the city, past this rundown place and back out into the forest. It’s set a stone’s throw away from the last row of buildings that makes up the edge of the small city, nothing more than a windswept shed out of wood and corrugated tin, some rusty and mud-encrusted motorbikes and trucks park around it in disorderly fashion. Half of the windows are broken, and the faint glow coming from what can’t be more than a handful of old lightbulbs doesn’t even reach their feet. 

It’s exactly what Louis expected, and based on its size and the vehicles parked outside, he estimates about a dozen people to be inside. All of them are undoubtedly armed, but also undoubtedly so intoxicated that their reflexes and aim will be impacted; not that they’d stand a chance even entirely sober. 

Compared to previous confrontations, this should be easy. 

“What d’you think?” Horan asks quietly, under his breath. “Five minutes?” 

He thinks Horan might underestimate him. “If that,” he says, and makes his way across. 

Once he pushes the crooked door open, Horan close on his heels, every conversation dies out instantly, and nine pairs of eyes land on him. Their instant, open hostility is amusing. He doubts it will take long for them to reconsider. It takes him less than a second to locate the man that had been watching them earlier, at a table with two others, hunched over a glass of rum. Looking at his posture, and the slack line of his jaw, Louis gathers it’s not his first. 

Horan walks past him and towards the bar in casual fashion and takes a seat on one of the crooked stools all standing in puddles of spilled liquor, orders a drink in fluent Spanish, but the bartender is frozen to the spot, not looking scared, but cautious enough to keep a distance, right hand wandering below the counter where he undoubtedly keeps a shotgun. Horan catches it at the same time as Louis. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Horan drawls, and his calm demeanor is enough to unsettle the bartender even further. “I’m sure my aim is better than yours.” Louis doesn’t need to look to know that Horan has drawn one of his handguns. The air in the muggy, dark room changes instantly. A number of chairs scrape, men intending to get up, to draw the gun most of them have stuffed into the back of their trousers, so Louis takes another step into the room, and it descends into terse silence once more. 

“Don’t move,” he says quietly, but it carries. “We only have a few questions.” Raising his left arm slightly, his right hand reaches for his glove. “Once we have our answers,” he tells them, revealing the shiny metal of his arm, “we’ll be on our way.” Louis waits a bit, let’s his gaze wander across every single one of them. 

He can practically smell their fear. They’re frigid with it, so tense their spines crack with the pressure. There aren’t many people left in the underworld who’ve never heard of the Winter Soldier. 

“Well? Any volunteers?” Nobody makes a sound, nobody even twitches, and Louis would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t hoped for that. “Okay then,” and with long, quick strides, he crosses the bar and grabs the curious stranger from before by the throat before he can even get to his feet. The yelp that wants to leave the man’s dry and chapped lips gets held up by Louis’ prosthetic. 

He lifts him up, and slams him against the nearest wall. 

The entire place shakes with the force of it. Two ribs cracked, four vertebras and larynx bruised. Louis knows he could break his neck if he only squeezed a little harder. 

“Well?” he repeats, adds pressure. The man’s eyes widen with panic, he garbles out a breath, but remains otherwise quiet. “Why were you watching us?” 

“Don’t make my buddy here repeat himself, Señor.” Louis glances over his shoulder. Horan is behind the bar, the bartender still stiff and immobile, pouring himself a glass of whiskey nonchalantly. Looking up, taking a sip, Horan winks with a crooked smile. “He has a bit of a temper.” 

Louis turns back to face the man who is most likely in his mid- to late forties, face tan and weathered, two scars splitting his left eyebrow and another one cutting across his right cheek. He’s seen things, and he knows exactly what will happen to him if he doesn’t give them what they’re asking for. Still, he presses his lips together, refuses to say anything. 

And again, Louis knows he shouldn’t have been hoping for his lack of cooperation. But he’s been bored, he feels rusty, and frankly, he doesn’t fancy staying here any longer than he has to. 

Without warning, he lets go, and the man crumbles to the floor, groans as he curls up, coughs twice before Louis leans down, takes a hold of his right arm, and yanks at it, angle precisely calculated, force exactly measured. There’s a crack, followed by a loud scream that fills the room and filters out into the night. The shoulder is dislocated, arm twisted back with pressure that will produce enough pain to motivate him to talk, but not enough that there’s any threat of him passing out from it. 

“Let’s take this outside,” Louis states, although he is sure the man is not listening, too preoccupied with the agony he’s in. Louis doesn’t feel sorry. He asked for it by not talking right away. 

Unceremoniously, he turns and – keeping a firm hold of the dislocated arm – pulls the body across the small hut and towards the door. Nobody moves to stop him. They know they wouldn’t stand a chance, and their camaraderie only goes so far. 

He walks until they’re smack dab in the middle of the track outside and lets go. The man hurls and empties the sparse contents of his stomach out onto the dirt. It smells foul, the humid air not doing much to disperse the odor. Horan leans in the jamb of the door with an almost bored expression, waiting for Louis to handle this his way. 

“Now,” he says and lands a quick but solid kick to the already battered ribs, causing the man to collapse onto his back, face scrunched up, breath coming out erratically. “I’m going to ask you just one more time: why were you watching us?” 

“I – I was not,” the man garbles out, so Louis kicks him again. Another crack, another scream. He is happy to keep going, but at one point, people do run out of ribs. And breaking fingers is a fiddley business. Louis would rather not waste any more time. 

“Do yourself a favor, and get talking.” Louis places his right foot on the man’s sternum. He doesn’t put any pressure on it just yet. After all, he needs him to talk, and stop fucking screaming. “You were watching us. Why?” 

“He say – he say you come here.” His voice is breathless and clipped, heavily accented, but Louis is not surprised he speaks English. After all, there is not a place in this world Americans haven’t butted in on, and he is sure this guy has had his share of run-ins with them. 

“Who said that?” Horan asks, coming closer. The man’s eyes flicker over to him, still wide with pain and panic, like he’s trying to assess who is the bigger threat. Horan appears eerily calm, but there is something flickering in his eyes that’s threatening to break out. Perhaps that is the reason the next response comes without a glitch. 

“We call him the American,” he rushes out with a pained exhale. 

Louis looks up and meets Horan’s eyes, brows drawing together, before he applies a bit more pressure. “Who is he?” It might be counter-productive to break another rib, but Louis is not feeling mellow. “Do you work for him?” 

Even in the dark, his face is unnaturally pale given his complexion; pasty and sweaty. “No, señor, no – lo juro.” He coughs, winces from the pressure it puts on his broken bones. “He come here, ask for people who want work. Some go, some stay. To us who stay, he tell people – people might look for him.” 

“And what did he tell you to do if they did?” Horan crouches down next to him, arms propped up on his knees in seemingly casual fashion, but Louis can see a vein throbbing on his neck. If he doesn’t get an immediate answer, Louis has no doubt that Horan will snap the man’s neck in seconds and go back inside for the next one.  Whatever the man says next is intelligible. He’s terrified. Of them, of whoever _The American_ is. Louis is surprised he hasn’t pissed himself yet.  

“Speak up,” he orders calmly, the weight of his boot remaining on the man’s sternum, not allowing him to move an inch, not allowing him to take a breath deep enough to settle his erratic pulse.  

Another Spanish curse through clenched teeth, his Adam’s apple moving up and down and up and down beneath the weathered, wrinkled skin of his throat. “He tell us to send them his way.” Horan gets to his feet, turns on his heels and takes a few steps away, arms clenched at his sides. Whoever the American is, he was expecting Malik to come, or at least someone from SHIELD, and given the fact that not even Louis has heard of anyone who calls himself the American (or is called that by others)…Malik might have not even known he was walking in what definitely is starting to look like a trap.  Horan may be distraught, but he needs to keep it together, because there are a number of things Louis still wants to know.  

He tilts his head, and zeroes in on the man’s eyes. They’re fascinating. Everything else about the guy is almost underwhelmingly stereotypical. But his eyes – they’ve seen something. They’re alive with it. Ablaze with memories that haunt this sorry being. “And why did you refuse the job? Work’s gotta be hard to come by.” 

And there it is. Flickering in his irises, vibrant like a movie. Terror that outshines even the fear of immediate death. This man would rather get his neck broken right here, right now, than go wherever he’s sent Malik.  

“Because the people who go there,” he says after a long pause that is filled by nothing but the rustling of the trees that surround them. Even the bar is dead silent. “They no come back.”

 

 

***

 

 

There isn’t a single cloud in the sky. After a night of apocalyptic downpours and thunder, everything is strikingly clear, and the air is fresh and crisp. It’s a beautiful September day, summer gently rolling into fall, the first yellow and orange leaves curling up on the rich green grass that is meticulously maintained, trimmed to precision. 

The rectangular hole that has been dug out among the sea of white headstones stands in jarring contrast to the background, to the blue, red and white flag neatly draped over the coffin that is slowly being lowered down into it. 

Harry hasn’t worn his regular Captain’s uniform since his last visit to Arlington to see his own grave (and Louis’, although he is pushing that thought aside). It’s outdated, and yet it still feels appropriate among the sea of military and intelligence officers who have come to pay their last respect to a man Harry still knows barely nothing of. Cowell isn’t leaving behind any family, at least that’s what it appears like, and it doesn’t come as a surprise. The fact that none of the attendees seem particularly moved isn’t shocking either, but it still feels strange to Harry. From the look on Liam’s face, who is on Harry’s left, dressed in a black designer suit and dark sunglasses, he doesn’t feel very comfortable here either. 

They are both here out of a sense of duty, and to keep up appearances, since three out of five Avengers are currently AWOL. Both Liam and he had been surprised to receive an order disguised as an invitation to attend Director Cowell’s funeral, and Harry had wondered if this was a ploy by Walsh to arrest them so publicly they wouldn’t have had any option but to comply. 

But to his surprise, Walsh is not even present. There are several Generals Harry has met before, as well as the heads of CIA and FBI, some members from the NSA and the White House’s Security Council and Defense Office; a few more in dark suits that Harry can’t place but look equally important. 

There is no speech, no heartfelt words. Just a pastor reading a psalm from the Bible that sounds vaguely familiar in Harry’s ears, but he can’t be sure. There’s a buzzing in his head that drowns out the words, most likely brought on by stress, by lack of sleep, by constant worry about the situation they’ve found themselves in, and even more than that by not knowing where Zayn and Niall are – where _Louis_ is. 

He gets pulled out of his thoughts by Liam nudging him with his elbow, and his vision returns to focus in time to see the crowd slowly but steadily dispersing, only a few people lingering behind to talk in hushed voices and with stony expressions. At first, Harry thinks Liam nudged him because he wants to be on his way as well, but when Liam takes off his sunglasses, eyes up ahead, Harry follows his gaze to see a short man in suit and glasses approaching. 

The man looks to be in his sixties, has a kind face that is thrown slightly off balance by the steely look in his eyes that instantly speaks of authority and commands respect. He appears relaxed otherwise, almost casual, buttoning up his suit jacket as he comes to stand in front of them, holding out his hand. 

“Captain,” he says with a firm voice, and his grip on Harry’s hand when he shakes it is equally confident. “Mr. Payne. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, even if it is under less pleasurable circumstances.” 

“Likewise…” Liam responds, trailing off. 

“Irving Azoff,” their new acquaintance fills in for him. “World Security Council.”

“Good to meet you, Sir,” Harry adds with a quick nod, curiosity beginning to grow as to why Mr. Azoff would seek them out. They’ve never directly dealt with the World Security Council. He’s aware that the Council was mostly a thorn in Cowell’s side, and probably the other way around as well; Cowell didn’t like to do things by the book, and the Council preferred its agencies to stick to protocol to avoid legal or international conflict. 

“I have been tasked with overseeing proceedings at SHIELD,” Azoff is quick to clarify.  “Considering the circumstances of Director Cowell’s death and…other factors, the Council believed it was best for someone without any previous affiliation with the agency to come in. At least until all the fires have been put out.” 

“I thought Walsh –” Liam starts, but Azoff cuts in immediately, voice lowering barely but enough for Harry to pick it up; enough to make him wonder if this is about more than a mere introduction. 

“Agent Walsh stepped up while I was wrapping up business in Stockholm, for which I am very grateful since I only arrived back this morning. But I have been briefed, and I’ve had my own team in New York since last night, working on the investigations to ensure that we can gather all the facts as swiftly as possible.” He pauses for a moment, then turns to Harry, the lenses of his glasses briefly catching sunlight, making Harry squint. 

“There have been some new developments,” Azoff continues, “that I would like to discuss with you in a more private setting.” Letting his eyes wander around for a moment, they return to Harry with the same sharp focus, and a quiet urgency that sends a tremor down his back. “I have my car waiting and a secure room at the Triskelion.” 

Even if it weren’t a thinly veiled order, there is no way in hell Harry would have declined.

  

 

The entire office is made out of glass. An aquarium, an uncomfortable display case within a building full of spies. The back of Harry’s neck keeps prickling even though there is not another soul on the entire floor, nobody lingering outside and stealing curious glances. He supposes that in a place like this, with cameras in every corner and artificial intelligence invading every space, he always feels watched. 

Azoff walks behind his desk, also made out of glass, but he doesn’t sit, doesn’t look at them for a solid minute as he pulls up…something on an integrated screen. To Harry’s left, Liam shifts, not uncomfortable but impatient, rolling from his heels to the balls of his feet and back, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants, fiddling with the pocket lining in a way that Harry needs to swallow down the urge to snap at him.

He hopes it’s not more bad news, and he hopes Azoff will get straight to the point. Regardless though, Harry has to admit that he feels relieved that Walsh will not be taking over, that he was hopefully put firmly into place after letting his inflated ego walk all over everyone. He isn’t familiar with Azoff, or his biography, and the members of the World Security Council are so elusive that there is not much information accessible, even for someone like Liam. 

Azoff takes another moment to tell who Harry thinks is his assistant to reschedule a meeting with the UN General Secretary before he turns his attention back to them and, without preamble, nods towards one of the glass walls where a hologram appears out of thin air. 

Or rather, not a hologram, as Harry realizes just a second later. A video. More accurately, video footage of the hallway outside Cowell’s office, footage he is unfortunately far too familiar with. He recognizes the time stamp and date, the dark figure stalking across the frame, shooting brief but white-hot pain through his chest. 

“Like I mentioned,” Azoff begins, “there have been some new developments. It was sheer luck we stumbled upon it, to be quite frank with you.”

“Stumbled upon what?” Liam is quick to speak up. 

Azoff lifts his hand, asking for patience, but something already settles deep in Harry’s belly, making him suddenly nauseous. He looks at the footage that’s playing on a loop, then back at Azoff, and his neck starts burning. 

“Our analysts were looking at this particular footage to determine what Sergeant Tomlinson might have been carrying with him,” Azoff continues. “A detonation as precise requires meticulous planning and instalment, and I don’t have to tell you than a simple hand grenade would not have that very effect. However, while looking at the footage, and taking it apart, we noticed a very minimal but nevertheless present glitch.” 

Harry knows what he’s going to say before he actually says it, and it only makes him feel sicker. 

“Someone tampered with the footage. Expertly, I have to add, and it could have just as easily been overlooked. Thankfully, one of our agents caught the millisecond in which the frames don’t entirely match up.” 

Liam is looking at him, his gaze burning holes into the side of Harry’s face, but he’s unable to avert his eyes from the screen where the video is now frozen, paused so that Azoff can elaborate. 

“We put it through a number of filters,” he continues as the lighting in the footage changes. “The original was from a recording that dates back to late July, late afternoon, so whoever doctored with this had to change colors, saturation, shadows et cetera, and – on top of that – manipulate heat sensors to pin it all on Sergeant Tomlinson.” 

To his left, Liam mutters a curse under his breath, but Harry – Harry is speechless. 

Azoff kills the projection and turns to them, left hand casually coming to rest on top of his desk, posture relaxed but expression firm. “Naturally, this not only means that whoever planned and executed this is still on the loose, but they also either have access to SHIELDs internal servers or hacked into them. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that either option is less than ideal.” 

“What can we do?” Liam jumps in instantly, sensing Harry’s muteness or because he’s felt just as useless in the last twenty-four hours as him. “I’m sure JARVIS can dig up something if he gets a closer look at the system and its weaknesses.” 

Azoff nods like he’d expected Liam to offer exactly that. “I’m afraid SHIELD’s servers have to remain under lockdown for a while, Mr. Payne. Considering the circumstances, the Security Council and I believe it’s wise to stick to protocol, and as per protocol, external contractors such as yourself are not to be granted access until we have exhausted all internal options.” 

“That’s just –” Liam is about to voice his contempt for protocol, but Azoff shuts him down quickly, stepping out from behind the desk, expression shifting from fairly neutral to suddenly rather serious. Harry isn’t sure how it’s possible, but it feels like his stomach sinks another couple of inches. 

“Taking the current state of the Avengers into account, I also believe it would be more useful for you to direct your own resources elsewhere,” he continues, eyes flickering briefly to Harry before settling on Liam again. “Agent Malik has been off the grid for a while, and I believe Agent Horan and Sergeant Tomlinson’s location is also unknown as of yesterday.” 

“That’s correct, Sir,” Liam nods. “But I’m sure we can locate their whereabouts, at least roughly, and more precisely once we get closer.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t authorize that,” Azoff says and from one second to the next, the rushing in Harry’s ears stops as deafening silence takes over, he and Liam staring at the new Director with nothing short of shock.

“What?” Harry manages to press out. “With all due respect, Sir, Sergeant Tomlinson was framed, and Agent Malik has been missing for weeks, we have to –” 

“ _Officially_ ,” Azoff cuts him off firmly and levels them both with a weighty look, “officially, I cannot authorize you leaving the country or even the state while the investigation into Director Cowell’s death is complete.” He raises his brows to underline his words, and perhaps to halt any further protests on their behalf before he goes on. 

“SHIELD is very much reeling from multiple security breaches to their Manhattan facilities, to their servers, and the loss of someone who shaped the agency for decades. Not to mention the damage to the actual building and surrounding area. The clean-up of that alone,” Azoff says with an exaggerated sigh, “is – as you can imagine – a bureaucratic nightmare.” 

He leaves it at that, at least for the moment, but Harry still feels a bit out of it, like he’s suspended in a vacuum and all the strings that are floating loosely around him just won’t stay connected. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can tell that Liam is looking at him again, waiting for him to do something, ask something, and then return the same questioning gaze to Azoff once again. 

Azoff seems to think they know what he’s implying, and Harry does believe they’re usually quicker on the uptake, but the last day and a half has been such…just such a mindfuck, such a back and forth since the explosion and this very moment, that making any kind of assumption doesn’t seem like a good idea. 

“I’m not sure I follow, Sir,” Liam eventually bites the bullet. 

Azoff doesn’t answer right away. He just smiles, serenely, and walks back behind his desk in front of the wall of glass that allows a panoramic view of the Potomac, of D.C. on the other side and beyond that sheer endless open skies. It’s been months since Harry last laid eyes on this particular postcard view. It feels like yesterday, it feels like a century ago, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that back then, he had Louis. And now he doesn’t. 

And once again, he’s only got himself to blame, and no idea how to rectify anything.

Sitting down as if this is just any normal day at work, Azoff reaches for a file and glances up at them over the frame of his glasses. 

“I will be buried in paperwork for the foreseeable future, and I will need all agents to remain at either the Triskelion or the New York facilities for security purposes while the investigation is ongoing. So I’m afraid I simply do not have the personnel to ensure that you two won’t do anything crazy like – oh, I don’t know,” he says, shuffling some papers absentmindedly and dropping his gaze, “go after Horan and Tomlinson without backing or permission from SHIELD or the Security Council.” 

His eyes flicker up and down again so quickly Harry can only be half certain it’s even happened. 

Azoff clears his throat, seemingly very interesting in whatever document is in front of him and keen to get him and Liam out of his hair. “I’m sure I can trust that you will remain in New York City in case we have to call you in for further questions. Like I said,” Azoff states and this time, his gaze lifts and it lingers, “I will be buried in paperwork and most certainly too busy to even think about sending agents to verify your whereabouts.” 

He’s giving them a pass. A get-out-of-jail-free card, at least temporarily. If they decide to go after Niall and Louis on their search for Zayn, SHIELD will not be interfering, which makes things a lot easier, but also more difficult at the same time. 

“Sir,” Liam starts, sounding surprised, because this is nothing if not unorthodox, but Azoff just hold up his file. 

“Paperwork, Mr. Payne.” 

The glass doors behind them slide open with a barely audible _whoosh_ , and Harry doesn’t hesitate another second before turning around on his heels and storming out. He hears Liam follow close behind, cursing under his breath as he tries to keep up. 

“Cap!” he calls out, but Harry keeps going, a million different thoughts swirling in his mind, so many that they don’t have space in his head, infringing on his eyes, his vision growing fuzzy around the edges. “Cap, wait!” 

He has to get out of this building, hurries past blurred bodies, feeling hot and cold at the same time. 

“Harry!” 

“ _What?”_ He whirls around, facing Liam and ignoring the agents milling about in the corridor, keeping their heads down to keep up the appearance of not listening in, of not paying attention to Captain America and Iron Man yelling just a stone’s throw away from the new SHIELD director’s office. 

“Are you –” 

“Liam,” Harry cuts him off right away, “if you ask me if I’m okay, I will throw something at you.”

Liam looks out of place in his neatly pressed suit, shirt and tie, sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, shoes polished to a high shine. He shrugs, looking resigned, tired, so much so that Harry immediately feels bad for yelling at him. 

“I don’t know what else to say.” 

Harry probably looks equally out of place in his uniform that is as much out of date as he is, distress written across his features because he has never been very good at hiding his emotions. 

“Anything else, Liam,” he eventually presses out through clenched teeth, body laden with tension. “Literally anything else. You could say that we trusted Walsh – fucking _Walsh_ – over Louis. We trusted what that damn leech was saying over one of our own. You could say that Louis was right.” Harry has to pause, swallow because of the tightness that’s sitting in his throat. “He was right when he said that we’d made up our minds before even giving him the benefit of a doubt.” 

Liam bites his lip, eyes drifting aimlessly, not settling on anything, the corridor now miraculously empty, leaving them with relative privacy. 

“I’ve always defied orders for him, Liam,” Harry sighs. “I’ve always trusted him over anyone else, always risked everything for him. Video or not, I should have done so this time as well. And…and I don’t know why I couldn’t do it.” 

He doesn’t blame Liam given everything they thought they’d known just until today. It wasn’t his responsibility to stand up for Louis, to believe him against all odds. It was Harry’s, and it’s always been Harry’s. And he’d done so without fail, until now. 

“I think you do know.” 

His gaze locks with Liam’s, stunned. “What?” 

“He was a wild card,” Liam explains. “And as much as I tried to trust him, I didn’t trust him entirely. I didn’t trust he was in full control. And I think it’s the same for you. Maybe even more so.” 

It doesn’t hit the nail quite on the head, but this isn’t the time or place to share that with Liam. Not when there are about a dozen cameras pointed at him. They don’t know what the investigation into Cowell’s death might reveal, and what could be used to incriminate Louis in case they need a convenient scapegoat. Walsh has done it before. Harry doesn’t know Azoff enough to be sure he won’t do the same. 

He did fear that Louis could relapse, and it worried him, made him anxious when he thought too long about it, but that didn’t impact his trust. It was Louis withdrawing, closing off more and more over the last handful of weeks. It was Louis seeking distance, downright avoiding Harry for as long as he could. Harry does know why he didn’t trust Louis entirely. And he knows now that he was wrong. But that doesn’t alleviate the guilt weighing him down in the slightest. 

“I should’ve believed him,” Harry settles on, because that’s what it boils down to, plain and simple, regardless of anything. He should have believed Louis. 

“But you didn’t,” Liam retorts and steps closer now that the tension has melted down Harry’s body. He looks worried, forehead creased and brows pulled together, but he also looks far more composed than Harry has any hope to be. “You didn’t believe him. I didn’t, either. We both made a mistake, but we can’t do anything about that now. What we _can_ do,” he continues, “is come up with a way to fix this mess. Or,” Liam adds with a wry smile, “at least improve it.”

He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Behind him, sunlight streams through the corridor. It shines onto all the smooth surfaces, gets thrown to opposite sides, multiplies and illuminates. Harry can see dust dancing in it. Objectively, hardly any time has passed at all, but it’s enough time to potentially put Niall and Louis on the other side of the world. 

On top of that, they still have no clue what happened to Zayn. It’s a bag of worms they have to open now, because they’ve not just let Louis down by not believing him, they also never entertained the idea Zayn was in trouble until Niall pointed it out. It’s a lot of fires to put out, and Harry can’t shake the feeling that the timing of it all might infer that somehow, all these fires will turn out to be joined up, and much larger than anticipated. 

But he’s getting ahead of himself, and he’s getting stuck in his head like he has a bad habit of doing, and Liam is right. They don’t have the luxury of stewing in their own juices and regretting what’s done and done. 

The world is spinning, and Harry feels dizzy. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Liam with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking another breath to bring on at least a little bit of clarity. 

Liam shrugs again and waves him off. “Forget about it. Like I said, no point dwelling on it.” 

Harry gives him a grateful smile. He is itching to get out of this uniform; itching to finally do something, and stop feeling useless. “Okay,” he agrees with Liam. “Where do we go from here? What are we going to do?” 

The Quinjet is flying under the radar, and after Winston and internal security breaches, Liam tweaked the programming so outside forces would be unable to locate it. They don’t know where it’s headed, or where it landed. They don’t know where Zayn is, or if Niall even knows where he might possibly be. They don’t have anything to go on at the moment. 

“First,” Liam cuts through his thoughts, “we head back to New York. And then, we’re going to look for the jet. I built that thing. Would be a fucking joke if I couldn’t find it.”

 

 

***

  

 

They don’t go back to the hostel. The room is a front more than anything, and they have their weapons and important supplies with them already. They also want to travel light, and the next part of their journey will not be an easy one. 

Leaving the former militia member lying on the dirty track outside the even dirtier bar after squeezing every last bit of information out of him, they set off towards the docks. According to their informant, Malik had taken a boat downstream just over two weeks ago, which is a visible relief to Horan. The shorter Malik has been captive, the higher are their chances for finding him alive – or close to, at least. 

There isn’t a great variety of vessels up for grabs, and in the dark they practically all look the same, small motorboats with rusty engines bobbing in the inky water of the river. It’s pitch black safe for a single bulb dangling in the doorway of a shed that seems to hold nothing but spare parts. 

Horan makes a beeline for a boat anchored to the very end of the lopsided pier and, after checking there’s enough oil and fuel, they settle in it, remove the thick rope from where it’s tied to the mooring buoy. Louis pushes them away from the pier, and they let the natural current of the river do the rest, silently agreeing that it’s better to ignite the engine once they’ve put some more distance between themselves and Puerto Boyacá. 

It’s not long until the soft glow of the town disappears behind them and the dark curtain of the night falls around them entirely, clouds covering the canopy hiding away the shine of the moon as well as any stars that might point them the way. But as of now, they don’t have a specific destination anyway, so letting the river set the course is all they can do. 

Malik deciding to take a boat to head north instead of going by foot or some other vehicle makes Louis think that they have a significant distance to travel, and they can only hope that they will stumble over Malik’s boat or another clue he had the opportunity to leave behind. The man in Puerto Boyacá barely knew anything, which isn’t a coincidence. Whoever the American is knows better than to trust people like him with important details. 

To his left, Horan secures an LED light to the side of the boat that allows them to see a couple of yards ahead, spot any irregularities in the river as well as unexpected obstacles. Then he ignites the engine. Pulling on the cord once, twice, it splutters to life, but the speed at which they’re going barely increases, which is displeasing, but not surprising. 

Louis sighs internally, curses the fact that he’s been coerced into joining this dreadful mission, before allowing his body to release the tension it’s almost constantly holding. Leaning back and getting more comfortable, he lets his gaze settle on Horan.

In the cold light from the LED lamp, he looks as white as a sheet, almost dead, eyes hard and lips firmly pressed together. As much as he’d claimed the hour of rest had refreshed him, he once again looks like a haunted man. It remains to be seen whether he will be able to keep it together until they find Malik. Louis more or less willingly signed up for this, but he has not signed up to be an emotional crutch. An agent of Horan’s caliber should be able to remain composed under any circumstances. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” 

Louis lifts a brow; doesn’t listen. “Like what?” 

“Like I’m a fucking liability,” Horan bites back at him, still refusing to lock eyes with him. He’s teetering on the edge, and Louis has never been good at holding back from pushing. 

“Well,” he shrugs, “you are.” 

The façade crumbles and breaks, but not in the way Louis expected it to. Horan tilts his head back and laughs. It’s full of spite, and the night swallows it up quickly, but Louis feels thrown for a brief moment. Horan is obviously not losing his mind just yet, but it sure seems like it. 

The boat keeps gliding smoothly and Horan chuckles, wipes at the corners of his eyes as he navigates them around a sharp left turn the river takes suddenly. His smile is almost sad when he looks at Louis and says, “fighting for someone does not make you a liability.” 

Louis would like to agree with him. But he doesn’t. And he has spent so many months swallowing down those thoughts that he doesn’t feel like doing that anymore. “It does if it starts clouding your judgment.”

This time, Horan’s eyes meet his, smile wiped off his face; dead serious. “My judgment has never been clearer, I can guarantee you. But maybe you should ask yourself why you have such a big stick up your arse. I’m pretty sure Cap’s judgment was more than clouded when he decided to rescue you back in the day.” 

Louis can’t but huff at that. “And look how that turned out.” His jacket is covering most of his arm, but his vibranium hand still glistens in the artificial light from Horan’s lamp. 

“Talk about looking on the bright side,” Horan mutters under his breath, almost to himself. “You want to know what I think?” 

Louis doesn’t. In fact, he thinks he should have just swallowed it down once again. But they are both stuck in a boat in the middle of the night, in the middle of Colombia, so he might as well indulge Horan. “Enlighten me.” 

“I think for as someone who’s the top of the food chain,” Horan immediately follows his invitation, “you’re awfully fuckin’ scared.” 

It’s Louis’ time to bark out a laugh. “Scared?” 

“Terrified,” Horan insists with a stoic look on his pale face. “So scared I’m surprised you’re not shaking like a leaf.” He pauses, the silence only broken by the steady splutter of the boat’s engine as it pushes them further downstream. “You know, we used to have dogs in Ireland, where I grew up. Farm dogs, mutts, nothing fancy. My dad used to keep them in a big kennel, collect them from around the county and most of them were fine. A few though were right mad, would back themselves into a corner and bark until they foamed at the mouth.”

 Louis doesn’t know where Horan is going with his, but he’s sure he won’t like it. 

“Most folks told my dad to put them down,” Horan continues after a beat, “because they were just – bad. Rotten to the core. No use for anyone, and dangerous to most. But my dad would prove them wrong. Barely took more than a month for all of them dogs to be as docile as a kitten. Was still wet behind the ears when I asked my dad how he did it. And all he said was, ‘lad, they aren’t bad. They’re just scared, and all they need is a bit of love’.” 

The tale stops after that, but Louis gets the message. “You’re comparing me to a rabid dog.”

Horan has the audacity to simply shrug with the ghost of a smile playing around his lips. “If the shoe fits,” he says, his eyes up ahead. Louis wants to believe that the sun is minutes away from rising and that there is a hint of light on the horizon, but they’ve barely been in this boat for a half hour, and it’s really sinking in now that it is going to be a very long journey. 

Louis thinks that’s all Horan has to say to him. He hopes so, at least. Horan remains silent for a long while as they watch the river curl through the Colombian jungle, interspersed by small island, a sharp curve to the left, a sharp curve to the right. The terrain to their left increases in height while the right side flattens. 

He’s thinking about what might be waiting for them; the difficulty of the terrain, the number of people, their skills and weapons, and whether they expect them or not. Louis has no doubt that the American was waiting for Malik, but they can’t be sure if is waiting for them as well. Malik might have personal beef, he might be a pawn, he could be both. 

It would be helpful to know who they’re dealing with, and as much as those names tend to stick, Louis can’t recall ever hearing of anyone who goes by the name of _The American._ What he _has_ learned – however – is that these names range from accurate to random. For all they know, the name might as well come from a preferred brand of cigarettes their culprit likes to smoke. 

He continuously lets his eyes wander from one riverbank to the other, even though he’s sure they won’t find Malik’s boat for another day (if they find it at all). It keeps his mind occupied, and it keeps him silent. Louis has gone years – _years_ – without saying a word to another soul. He could easily go the next couple of days without speaking, but he should have known that Horan does not handle silence well. 

It’s maybe another half hour, not much more, before Horan’s voice cuts through the night once more. 

“You know, for about five minutes, I was sure it was you,” he says, looking at Louis with an illegible expression. “Given how scared you always seem. It’s not like Cowell ever gave you much of a choice. It was either work for him, or get locked up. He had you cornered. And like one of them dogs, I thought you just – snapped. But then I thought,” and Horan pauses, squints at him, mulling over his next words. 

“Then I thought, he’s not scared of Cowell of all people. Or of SHIELD for that matter. But he _is_ scared.” 

It’s – odd. Louis isn’t sure what Horan expects him to say to that. “Well, thanks for the insight into my psyche, Freud.” 

“You’re welcome,” Horan responds good-naturedly, ignoring the jab. “You know, maybe you should stop assuming you’re always the smartest person in the room.” 

Louis can’t but bristle at that. “I don’t assume that.” In fact, it would be idiotic to assume so. He would not be so arrogant to make the mistake of underestimating anyone. 

“You do,” Horan insists. “You think you’ve got all of us figured out, don’t you? And you probably have a pretty accurate assessment of Payno. I love the guy, I really do, but he’s as multi-dimensional as grated parmesan. And Cap…well, we both know you know him inside and outside, probably better than what’s good for either of you.”

Another bend, another collection of small islands forcing Horan to focus on steering them clear of any obstacles for the next minute. 

“Zayn and you have an agreement, I’m sure,” he eventually continues as an uninterrupted calm stretch of river lies ahead. “You’re both equally good at deceit. But for some reason, you seem to think I’m completely oblivious. Or maybe not completely oblivious,” Horan amends after a beat, “but you definitely think I’m not always paying attention.” 

The tone of his voice is neutral. He isn’t displeased with it. Louis does have to admit that Horan isn’t always on his radar, but he never loses track of him. He never forgets about him. And he does not think he has ever underestimated him.

“Your point being?” he asks when Horan doesn’t go on. 

“There’s no point,” Horan replies. “But I thought I’d remind you.” 

“Remind me of what?” 

He turns to face Louis again. In this moment, he is almost eerily like Malik; sharp and direct, with brutal subtlety. 

“That you don’t have a fucking clue who I am,” is Horan’s sober response. 

The cheerful front he usually puts up is gone, stripped away to reveal the agent that brought down Malik and so many others. No, Louis has not underestimated him. But he has to admit that Horan is right in this case – he does not know who he is. He’s never deemed him important enough to find out. 

“I’ve been doing this shit since I was twelve. And I was the same age when I first killed someone. I was out there on my own for ten years before SHIELD plucked me up. Without fancy gadgets or superhuman strength. So if you think you can fool me…think again.” 

It’s not a threat, even if it’s phrased like one. As Horan has stated, this is a gentle reminder that he shouldn’t be written off. A gentle reminder that although Horan is very much human, he is the dark horse of the Avengers, more aces up his sleeve than Louis originally anticipated. 

Yet it’s nothing he cannot handle. Now that they have left New York, now that SHIELD and Harry are out of the equation, there is nothing left at stake. Louis doubts that Horan knows what’s going on inside his head, and even if he’s just vaguely right with his assumptions, there won’t be any consequences. And to say that Louis is scared… 

He is cautious. He is skeptical, and he doesn’t trust anyone but himself. In their line of work, those are not bad things. And if Horan wants to waste his time and energy playing fucking shrink, Louis is happy to let him go ahead. Horan might’ve been “doing this” since he was a kid, but Louis has decades on him. He has decades on all of them.   

Louis doesn’t dignify Horan with a response. He looks ahead, the clouds littering the sky getting minimally lighter as the first couple of drops hit his skin. It’s hardly a minute later when the sky opens up. 

Rain season has officially begun.

  

 

***

 

  

Liam’s lab looks exactly like they left it, down to the two cups of half-drunken coffee sitting on one of the workbenches and Dum-E beeping quietly, poking at the pink feather that’s fallen to the ground. Liam quietly swears at the robot before pushing a couple of engine parts out of the way and heading straight for the largest screen in the room. 

Harry unbuttons his uniform jacket, pulls it off his shoulders. He’d love a shower and a change of clothes, but that has to wait for now. It’s frustrating that this isn’t something he can contribute much to, but Liam has been mulling over how to proceed since they left the Triskelion just under two hours ago. It’s likely he’s already formulated a plan in his head, wasting no time to call out to JARVIS. 

They’ve all gotten used to the ever-present AI, so when he doesn’t instantly respond to Liam, Harry stops short. 

“JARVIS?” Liam tries again, and this time, the only response he gets is strangely sounding static that resembles… 

“Is that…is that a cough?” Harry wonders out loud, looking at Liam quizzically. Surely JARVIS can’t get something like a cold. 

Even Liam looks a little confused, and that sure as hell isn’t a good sign. He shrugs. “JARVIS?” he asks again. “Are you okay?” 

The mechanic cough sounds through the room again, this time louder than before, and it makes the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand. 

“Pardon me, Sir,” eventually echoes through the lab, although the AI’s voice sounds weirdly hoarse. “I seem to have caught a bug.” 

At that, Liam’s eyes widen almost comically and he rushes to his desktop, pulling up a keyboard, several devices lighting up straight after that. Harry grabs one of the chairs and wheels it closer before slowly sinking down on it, trying and failing to follow what Liam is doing.

“How the _fuck_ ,” Liam bites, “did you catch a bug?” 

It takes another couple of seconds before Harry gets the connection. A bug, meaning a virus. Not the human kind, even though that’s how JARVIS is expressing it. And now he gets why Liam looks so alarmed. Nobody should be able to plant a virus in the most advanced, most secure computer system that exists on the planet. 

“I’m afraid I don’t recall, Sir,” JARVIS replies. 

“Yeah, that’s what I feared,” Liam mutters as he conducts a quick search, eyes jumping from one point on the screen to the next as he types in line after line of code, swearing whenever he comes up empty. 

Harry doesn’t understand what exactly is going on, but he knows that this can’t be a coincidence. First the security breach at SHIELD, and now this. All their systems and data have been compromised, and he has no clue who could be capable of that. But it does remind of something that has been bothering him since Azoff told them that the security footage had been tampered with. 

If Louis wasn’t outside Cowell’s office, if Louis was telling the truth when he’d told them he’d never left the tower… 

“Do you think this is why JARVIS couldn’t locate Louis?” 

Liam’s gaze only flickers his way for a split-second before all his attention is back on the screen. “Possibly,” he replies. “Very likely, actually. Fuck, I hadn’t even – I didn’t think that –” 

“Nobody thought that was a possibility,” Harry quickly cuts him off. Like Liam said, there’s no time to look back at what’s happened. They need to focus all their attention and energy on coming up with a solution for this, and everything else. This is a frighteningly accurate coordinated attack on them and SHIELD. 

At least now they know. At least now they’re not blind to it like they were before. The calm of the last few months clearly lulled them all into a false sense of security, unaware of the storms brewing up ahead. Well…apart from Zayn, perhaps. Maybe he saw it coming. Maybe he left to investigate, or to prevent anything worse from happening. They won’t know until they find him and hopefully Niall and Louis in the process. 

“I think I got it,” Liam suddenly pipes up, still frantically typing away, not trusting JARVIS and voice control to do anything accurately at the moment. 

“The virus?” 

Liam doesn’t respond right away. The frantic hacking on his keyboard comes to a halt as he stares at what’s nothing but gibberish to Harry, but clearly means something to Liam. “Huh.” 

Harry leans closer. “What?” 

“It’s not a virus,” Liam says, sounding as confused as Harry has felt for the last couple of minutes; hours really. 

“It’s not?” 

Liam shakes his head, puzzled. “No it’s – it’s weird. It’s not a virus but it’s…how do I explain it? Dressed like one. It’s a regular file from the looks of it,” he says and types some more. “Someone must’ve planted it there, disguised as a virus, with all the symptoms.” 

It’s one of the strangest things Harry has ever heard. “Why would anyone do that?” It certainly isn’t the same like planting manipulated footage to frame one of them. 

Liam tilts his head, scratches behind his right ear and starts gnawing on his bottom lip. “Not sure,” he mumbles through his teeth. “To hide it, I guess?” 

But who would have the expertise, who’d have the need to – “Zayn.” 

Their eyes meet. “Yeah,” Liam breathes. “He’d definitely know how to do that. Maybe he planted it there before he left. Programmed it so it would only surface if triggered by something.” 

“Cowell’s email?” Harry wonders out loud. It would make sense time-wise. 

“Possibly,” Liam agrees. He sounds a bit winded, but Harry doesn’t blame him. It can’t be easy for him to stomach that Zayn managed to trick him and his own AI. They’ve all been distracted though. And Zayn is very good at what he does. 

“So what is it?” 

Liam turns back to the screen. “Not sure. Also not sure if we should open it. What if that’s how Cowell got blown up?”

It’s a possibility, but Harry is pretty sure that if someone wanted them dead, they would have waited for them all to assemble in Cowell’s office and then flipped the switch. “Only one way to find out,” he says, and it’s another beat, another deep breath from Liam, before he sends the command. 

They don’t get blown up. Harry lets out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding as nothing happens. Well – not nothing. There’s a file open on the screen in front of them. A personnel file, to be precise. From SHIELD. Harry has seen enough of them in his time to recognise it right away. Making it slightly illegible though, is the fact that more than half of what’s written there on the double page is blacked out. And on top of everything else is one bright red stamp. _Deceased_. 

He doesn’t recognise the man on the picture. And judging by the look on his face, neither does Liam. 

“Who the hell is Simon Jones?”

 

 

***

 

 

_to be continued_

 

 


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do I know that?” Horan throws back exasperatedly. “Because he told me. Because he’s been tearing himself apart ever since you showed up again and this is the one thing he clings to like nothing else. The bloody Cyclone on Coney _fucking_ Island.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all: my sincerest apologies that it took me fucking forever to write the fifth chapter. for those of you who follow me on tumblr, you'll know that i spent the last couple of months finishing up my thesis, which was a bit of a monumental task that unfortunately is still not entirely completed. i had to find some time in between edits and layout design in the last two week to finally get this finished for you, and i hope it won't disappoint.
> 
> it's not one of my longest chapters, but it felt like a good point to end this chapter, and i promise that the next chapter won't take quite so long. i also want to apologise in advance. you'll understand once you've read it.
> 
> thanks goes to dearest dimples, as always, for lending a patient ear and being my guinea pig as well as beta. 
> 
> and on a final note regarding this chapter: i suck at science, and anything related to it, so please don't take anything in this chapter seriously. also, marvel has a very interesting and elaborate backstory regarding the fictional metal vibranium that's all related to black panther and wakanda, something that is not part of the canon in this particular universe (i do encourage you to read up on it though, the black panther storyline is one of marvel's finest). i have also allowed myself certain liberties with regards to vibranium for the sake of the storyline, and once again, i need to stress that there is no scientific accuracy in this story.
> 
> now without further ado: please enjoy.
> 
> ps.: do feel free to yell at me on [tumblr](http://whimsicule.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> pps.: i changed the chapter count. will definitely need more than eight chapters i'm afraid. i guess there's two ways of looking at it...
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: lots of swearing, as usual.
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

 

 

_“Who the hell is Simon Jones?”_

*** 

 

His face is thin. Sharp, emphasized by high cheekbones and a slim nose. Deep-set, dark eyes stare blankly at the lens of the camera that snapped this photograph. His lips are set in a harsh line, one corner of his mouth almost imperceptibly downturned, turning his expression from emotionless into unkind. 

He looks like a rat, shoots through Harry’s head before he can stop himself, silencing his gut reaction because he doesn’t want to be unfair. He doesn’t want to be someone to judge a deceased agent on his appearance in an old, pixelated photograph. Who knows what events might have preceded this image, what had been on Jones’ mind when it was taken; what horrors he’d witnessed in the years, months, days before his death. 

“Have you ever heard of this guy?” Liam interrupts his thoughts, and Harry shakes his head. 

“No,” he replies, eyes scanning the bits of text that haven’t been blacked out. “Looks like he was before our time. Maybe even before Zayn and Niall’s.” The date and cause of his death aren’t mentioned, but his date of birth is. Jones has a solid fifteen years on them. 

“Maybe,” Liam echoes. “Quality of the file suggests so anyway.” 

Harry looks at him. “What do you mean?” 

“Means I can’t unveil whatever they blocked out because it’s a fucking scan,” Liam scoffs and folds his arms, shirt stretching over his tense biceps, offended at the sheer notion that something is not properly digitalized. “Someone took a marker to that folder and blacked that shit out by hand before scanning it in like it’s the Stone Age.” 

“Hm.” Harry squints at the screen as if that might somehow make it more legible. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can tell that Liam is shifting, chewing on his lips – mulling something over. “If you’re thinking about breaking into SHIELDs actual database to look for that file, I’m pretty sure you’re wasting your time,” he says. “They probably scanned and immediately shredded the hard copy afterwards.” 

“I know, I know,” Liam huffs. “It just – seems weird, doesn’t it? If the guy is dead, why black out most of his file, destroy the hard copy, but then scan it in?” 

“Maybe a defector?” Harry suggests, and then immediately shakes his head at himself. “Right, no. It would say so, wouldn’t it?” 

Liam confirms it with a brisk nod. “I’ve seen dozens of files of former agents who defected or were secret HYDRA agents. They don’t look like that. Information on those kind of people needs to be accessible, not blacked out. And if the guy is dead…?” 

“Why bother?” Harry concludes. If Agent Jones had died on active duty, he wouldn’t need discretion or protection. “Look,” he sighs after a moment, “we aren’t going to figure it out staring at his file. And maybe we’re wasting our time. The question is: why did Zayn leave it in the first place? What is it supposed to tell us?” 

“That whoever or whatever killed him is after Zayn, too? Or blew up Cowell?” 

It makes sense. And it’s the obvious answer. But if Harry has learned anything in the last forty-eight hours, it’s that the obvious answer isn’t necessary the right one. So even if that makes sense, even if it seems likely that this is a connection they’re supposed to make, Harry doesn’t think it’s their best choice of action at this point. 

He tells Liam as much and watches as the muscles in his arms spasm momentarily, containing tension, showing frustration. Harry gets it. His throat is tight with anger, every breath bringing discomfort with it. But that frustration will only grow if they remain stuck here, trying to solve a puzzle that possibly can’t be solved at this point. 

“So what do you suggest we do?” Liam asks after a few minutes of silent brooding. 

There is only one thing Harry can think of. “Find Zayn.” Find Niall. Find _Louis_. 

“Not even Niall knew where he went. We have even less of a starting point with that search.” 

Maybe not the day before, Harry realizes. But Niall took the Quinjet. And he took it _somewhere_. So perhaps finding him, helping him, needs to be their first step now. Taking care of each other first should have always been their priority. But there will be time for guilt later on. 

“You said Niall is flying under the radar,” Harry meets Liam’s eyes. “Is there any way you might still be able to track his route?” 

For a moment, Liam looks a curious mix of flattered and affronted. “Well. I mean, I designed the jet, and the stealth mode. I made it untraceable.” 

Harry raises his brows at him. “You’re telling me you designed something and didn’t leave a very personal loophole somewhere in there?” 

“There is no loophole,” Liam insists. “I don’t trust SHIELD, but I don’t trust myself much either, you know? But,” he concedes, brows furrowing and lifting his hand to his mouth, starting to chew on his thumb, “the jet may be practically invisible, but it’s not gone. If I hack a couple of satellites, I may be able to literally trace it via the shifts it created in the atmosphere. The result may not be very accurate though. It will essentially be an informed guess.” 

Harry is aware that Liam hates guessing, but this is something they could work with. If they have a vague idea where Niall and Louis are heading, they can at least get closer and then come up with the next step on the way. 

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

Liam shrugs, tilts his head to the side, thinking. “No clue. I’ve never done it before.”

 

 

***

  

 

The rain doesn’t let up. 

It falls in golf ball sized drops from the dark grey sky that hardly brightens even after the sun rises. Ricocheting off every surface, pulverised into innumerable smaller drops, the world around them is reminiscent of an old, low quality video tape, including an irritating audio sound make up from the spluttering of the old boat’s engine and the continuous splattering of the rain on the rivers surface. If Louis were to stretch out his arm, he’d barely be able to distinguish the tips of his fingers, even with his perfect sight. 

Horan finds it harder and harder to navigate, Louis can tell, having slowed down their tempo to a pace that could hardly be described as crawling to have enough time to steer clear of any unexpected obstacles in their way. With their rusty little vessel steadily filling with rain water and the lamp lighting their way flickering precariously, they’ve been silently ploughing on for roughly seven hours and twenty minutes, not making the progress that Louis believes they should be making if they want to find Malik alive. 

Their misfortune shows clearly on Horan’s face, red and wet from the onslaught of rain, hair a few shades darker sticking to his skull. He keeps wiping water out of his eyes with irritated, jerky movements, leaving momentary white pressure points around his brows for a few seconds before blood rushes back to the surface.

Continuing in this weather might not be their best option, risks of damaging or capsizing their boat increasing by three point five percent every forty-five minutes and their sight significantly compromised. But there is also no indication that the weather is going to change; no bright spots at the sky, no chance of the sun breaking through seemingly impenetrable clouds. Louis is not the one to make that call. He can see the dilemma in Horan’s eyes, sitting right there in the center, easy to read. 

Louis turns his head again, looks up ahead where everything is murky and grey, black blotches here and there sketching the edges of what is increasingly steep terrain. Seeking shelter will prove challenging as well, loosened up muddy ground giving opportunity for landslips if they venture up into the mountains. But staying too close to the shore when the river will most likely rise over the edge soon is also not an option. Louis would suggest trekking inland and continuing by foot but keeping the Magdalena river in their periphery, yet without an indication where Malik might have stopped, they have to rely on finding the boat he took hopefully anchored somewhere downstream. 

It adds to the irritation Louis can feel crawling up his neck inch by inch. Just because he can handle being drenched to the bone does not mean he likes it. It makes the collar of his jacket heavy, rubbing against the junction of his neck and shoulder uncomfortably; an irritating, clammy pressure that is far too reminiscent of cold fingers lacing around his throat and pressing down. 

He feels himself swallow and huff in a quick breath before he can help himself, prosthetic tightening where it’s metallic fingers are curled around the edge of the boat, making the wood groan. Louis is sure Horan can pick up on his vexation just like he can sense Horan’s unease, but thankfully this time Horan decides not to provide unnecessary commentary. 

It takes another hour, another two near-collisions with two large pieces of driftwood, before Horan’s voice reaches his ears, almost drowned out by the downpour. 

“I can’t fucking see!” he yells and Louis turns his gaze on him in time to witness another irritated swipe across his face. Louis doesn’t respond, just holds Horan’s blinking eyes, the curtain of rain between them smudging every outline, dragging his face into something grotesque. “Fuck!” 

Horan kills the engine, looking murderous, and Louis guesses this is all indication he is going to get that they are taking an involuntary break until the weather improves at least a little. He grabs the paddle that’s secured with a few flimsy strings below the plank he is sitting on and lowers it into the river. It only takes a few practices swipes through the dark brown water and the addition of the current before they drift towards the shore, Horan grabbing the low-hanging branches of a tree that is tipping precariously close to the river’s surface. 

Louis drops the paddle, quickly finds his balance as he gets to his feet and, keeping a firm grip on the boat, swings his body over the edge into hip-deep, muddy water. His body registers the sensation, the shock of cold water lapping at his waist, but his mind is very good at filing that sensation aware and pay no attention to it. He waits for Horan to secure the lamp on his backpack and join him in the water before moving themselves and the boat to the overgrown edge. 

Horan climbs onto the riverbank with ease, hefts his body into dense shrubbery and then looks at Louis like he’s a second away from offering him a hand. He catches himself though, and Louis is free to get on with it. Moving a few more feet, he finds a patch of shore that is free of shrubs and climbs onto it, holding the boat with his left hand. He can feel the current pull at their small vessel, but his prosthetic locks, not budging an inch, and it only takes Louis one firm pull to lift the boat out of the water and hoist it over the edge and onto land with him. 

By his side in seconds, Horan and he apparently don’t need words to communicate their next steps. Horan has clearly come to the same conclusion that Louis has, that it is not a good idea to venture too far aware nor stay too close, and wasting time looking for a suitable spot to shelter themselves from the weather will strip them of time that may very well be crucial later on. So they grab the boat on either end and turn it over, dumping the collected rainwater onto the already wet ground. 

Navigating around trees and bushes, they move the boat approximately one hundred feet away from the shore, to be on the safe side, where the terrain is still relatively flat, covered by trees with long branches that provide a good base for their improvised shelter. It’s not too difficult to find a spot where they can secure the boat, the upended bunt shielding them from the rain, leaving them wet but with the possibility to dry at least some while they wait. 

Horan mutters an impressive slew of curses under his breath as he peels out of his jacket, slinging it over a branch to dry. Considering the humidity, Louis doubts it will dry much. He is certainly not going to bother. Finding Louis looking at him, Horan snaps at him irritably. 

“I’m fine,” he practically barks and Louis shrugs. 

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he replies and – on a whim – decides to be a bit more forthcoming. “I know it’s frustrating. But weather is the one thing we don’t have any control over. Best to just deal with it.” 

“I know that,” Horan retorts sourly, “and I _am_ dealing with it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

“This may come as a surprise to you,” Louis finds himself saying, “but I don’t like it either.” 

Any minute this mission drags on longer than it absolutely has to is inconvenient. For a brief second, Louis wonders if he should just take off now, leave Horan with the boat to go on in an attempt to find Malik that is increasingly looking like searching for a needle in a haystack. If he continues east from here, he should probably get to Medellín without much hassle in two days or less, and from there he could go – anywhere. South America is a good place to disappear. 

It would be so easy. 

Horan mutters something else under his breath and Louis finds himself heave out a sigh. 

“You’re from Ireland, aren’t you? Should be used to this kind of weather.” 

Horan peels off his gloves and unclasps his armguards, keeping his eyes focused on his hands. He doesn’t respond for a minute or so, long enough for Louis to think he won’t react at all, so when his voice suddenly does cut through the steady drumming of the rain hitting their makeshift roof, Louis isn’t startled, but he is surprised. 

“Can’t remember much, to be honest,” Horan says eventually and he sounds…bitter – perhaps even wistful. “I left a long time ago, and I never went back. Of all the things I try to keep in my memory, the bloody weather isn’t one of ‘em. Plus,” he adds after a beat, after hesitating just a moment, “I spent most of my childhood in Berkshire.”  

He looks up then, catches Louis’ puzzled gaze with a wry smile. “Boarding school,” Horan explains, which does catch Louis by surprise. 

“I thought,” he begins, but Horan cuts him off. 

“That I grew up on a farm?” He shrugs. “Well, I did. Was a big farm though. Told you that you didn’t know shit about me.” 

Louis can’t but bristle at that. His eyes narrow minimally, but enough for Horan to cock his brow in response. 

“I could say the same to you,” Louis tells him. “You think your little anecdotes about stray dogs will help you get into my head?” 

“Oh no,” Horan shakes his head with a smile, leaning back against the trunk of the tree that’s propping up their boat. “I don’t want to get into your head. Can’t imagine I want to know everything that’s in there. Though there is one question I have,“ he tags on, making Louis pause. “You don’t have to answer, of course. But we’re stuck here, and once we find Zayn, you’re going to disappear anyway, so you might as well, right?” 

Louis’ spine stiffens with apprehension. It doesn’t show in his expression, he is certain of it, but the corner of Horan’s mouth still twitches upwards, as if Louis were a spider he’d managed to trap under a magnifying glass. And perhaps that’s exactly what Louis is – fucking trapped in this jungle, sitting on a serving platter while Horan keeps poking at him with a metaphorical stick. 

It’s a means to an end, he tells himself, and regardless of the outcome, this mission will be over soon, and he will leave all of this – 

“How long?” Horan asks, tilting his head to the side with a curious gaze. Louis’ neck starts prickling, getting hot, and yet the rest of his body is suddenly very cold. “How long since you recovered your memory?” 

The world around them doesn’t quiet down. The rain, perhaps even heavier than before, keeps hitting the hull of the boat in rapid staccato, bringing the forest around them to life, rustling the trees, loosening up the earth, feeding the river that’s gurgling along. And yet somehow, Louis feels encompassed in silence, air suspended as his gaze meets Horan’s. 

He thought to have perfected the act. With everyone’s preconceived ideas working to his advantage, it hadn’t even been particularly difficult to fit himself into a mould they’d all carved out for him. Not for the first few months at least. But being under constant scrutiny, having Harry’s sorrowful eyes on him every day of every week with the burden he believed he needed to carry weighing on both of them – he slipped. Louis knows his behaviour over the last few weeks, him isolating himself because…because he needed the space to fucking breathe, to hear his own thoughts for once and simply exist, had the potential to backfire, and it did. He just hadn’t thought that it would backfire quite like this. 

That Horan would be able to only take one hard look at him and see past his carefully crafted façade. 

And Horan is right. Whatever he tells him will likely be completely inconsequential. Even if Horan decides to share what Louis tells him – it won’t matter. It feels…strange. If Louis sheds this role he’s taken on, if he peels off that last layer, is there anything that will be left of him? He stopped being a person decades ago. It is numbing and yet also weirdly liberating. If he drops this role, perhaps he might finally be able to not leave a footprint behind. Perhaps he might finally be able to disappear. 

“I crossed the Atlantic on a freighter that left Panama for Algeciras,” Louis eventually replies. Something flares up in Horan’s eyes. Surprise, Louis guesses. “Had a couple of days to do nothing but sleep. Didn’t take much more than that for my accelerated healing to work through the mess HYDRA had made of my head. Another week of making my way across Europe and it was all back.” 

Horan holds his gaze for another moment before he turns, audibly exhaling through his teeth and ruffling his hair that is still damp and sticking to his scalp with a mildly trembling hand. 

“That long, huh?” he says with another huff, turning back to face Louis with his arms folding up, muscles and sinews moving beneath his pale skin. There’s anger underlying his expression, for which Louis can’t blame him, but it remains under the surface and never takes over. Perhaps Horan also realises that it doesn’t matter anymore. “So basically, you’ve been lying to everyone since Washington.” 

Louis shrugs. “To be honest, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to survive that stunt anyway.” 

“Right. Is that supposed to be an excuse?” Horan asks, starting to sound slightly exasperated. Louis doubts it’s all because of what he said. The stress of this entire situation is catching up with Horan. Venting at Louis surely feels like a release for him. 

“No,” Louis replies bluntly, “because I’m not sorry. I needed all of you on my side to take down HYDRA. And after that, it was the safest bet to keep going along with your assumptions. I was in a vulnerable position, at SHIELDs mercy, and pretending to be an amnesiac invalid was bound to play to your protective instincts.” 

Horan shakes his head, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “Jesus Christ, you’re really fucking morbid. Sympathy over honesty, huh? Couldn’t trust us to be on your side regardless of…” He trails off, apparently not knowing how to finish; not knowing why Louis would lie about anything. 

In this case, Louis isn’t sure that he can follow. “Just because our goals were temporarily aligned doesn’t mean it would remain that way.” Everything that has happened in the past day is proof of that. Louis doubts he needs to point that out. 

“Right,” Horan says, more to himself than to Louis. “Right, so you lie to us – no, no!” He cuts himself off, presses his palms against his eyes for a second before letting his arms drop to his sides again. “You didn’t just _lie_. You didn’t just go along with anything. You fucking embellished it, you – you sold Cap a fucking sob story with fucking _props_!” 

Louis blanches. “How do you –” 

“How do I know that?” Horan throws back exasperatedly. “Because he told me. Because he’s been tearing himself apart ever since you showed up again and this is the one thing he clings to like nothing else. The bloody Cyclone on Coney _fucking_ Island.” 

He knows he should feel pained to hear that. It should affect him. At the very least, Louis should feel guilty. But the mechanisms in his head are already working to rationalise all the decisions that had led up to those actions. 

Above everyone else, he’d needed Harry to trust him, and remembering their past meant he had all the tools at his disposal to make that happen. He’d known exactly what buttons to push, what to give and what to hold back, and Louis doesn’t deny that it seems cruel. But what is even more cruel is that he did it without second thought; that he couldn’t help it. That one of the things that HYDRA left him with – apart from that grotesque metal contraption – was the ineluctable instinct to survive. 

The inescapable drive to cling to this miserable life no matter what. 

“Why the fuck,” Horan goes on, “would you do that?” 

Louis suppresses the urge to shrug again, to brush it off. This onslaught of questions is exhausting him more than a one week trek through this jungle could ever do. “It had to be believable, didn’t it?” he retorts and finds a dry spot by the tree, sinks down, starts picking at his boots. 

“Believable… Fuck, I don’t want to be, but I’m a little bit impressed. Mostly that Zayn didn’t cotton on to you.” 

“I wouldn’t say I was particularly successful,” Louis disagrees. Again, the events leading up to this whole mess are proof of that. “Malik may have not cottoned on, but he didn’t trust me. Neither did Payne, or anyone at SHIELD for that matter.” 

“Cap trusted you.” 

Louis huffs out a dry laugh. “He didn’t. He wanted to, but he didn’t. I could tell. I know him, remember?” 

“Then you should’ve been able to tell that he would’ve taken a fucking bullet for you, at any point, even if you’d told the truth from the start.” Horan doesn’t make an effort to find a dry spot. He sits down right where he’s standing and folds up his legs. “Christ, I think you’ve been out there on your own for so long that you’ve forgotten we’re not all monsters.” 

Louis wants to roll his eyes. “That your official diagnosis, Freud?” 

“Just saying,” Horan replies, returning to his usual casual tone that now feels mildly unsettling given what their conversation is about, lifting his shoulders for a beat before slumping forward a few inches. His eyes narrow minimally as he continues to focus on Louis. 

“You could’ve told us the truth,” he insists again after a moment, but it doesn’t seem like he’s saying it to Louis. He’s wondering out loud, practically talking to himself. “None of us are monsters, but we aren’t saints either, and telling us you’d regained your memory – it wouldn’t’ve made a difference. And I’m pretty sure you’d had a good enough read on us to know that, sure, Payno didn’t trust you, but he doesn’t trust anyone, least of all Cowell. Me and Zayn, well…we’re not the same, but we can empathise, I guess. So it all comes down to your boyfriend, huh?” 

This time, Louis does roll his eyes. He is momentarily tempted to get up and put some physical distance between himself and Horan, in need of a deep breath and the release of the tension that has been gripping his frame for the past minutes. 

“Can’t imagine Cap would’ve been anything but – ah, shit.” Louis can’t be certain what conclusion Horan has reached, but he can take an educated guess. “You remember everything. Everything. But…” He doesn’t finish his train of thought, and he doesn’t need to. Louis is relieved that this is the moment Horan decides to refrain from sharing his thoughts. 

Away from New York, from Harry, from all of it – Louis can allow himself a moment to…to feel guilty. Or perhaps it’s not the most accurate description of that pang in his chest. Guilt seems too significant. Louis doesn’t feel guilt, not regarding this. There is plenty in his past that keeps him up at night, that makes screams echo in his head until he fears he might go insane; things that make him sweat and tremble in dark corners, hidden from sight, away from anyone who might be a witness to his weakness. 

Not loving Harry isn’t one of them. 

“That’s what you’re scared of isn’t it?” Horan pipes up again, much to Louis’ chagrin, trying to solve whatever puzzle he imagines Louis’ mind to be. “You weren’t worried about losing our trust, or being found out, or having to run again. I think you couldn’t care less about what happens to _you_. But I think the one thing that absolutely terrifies you is breaking Harry’s heart. And what that might do to him.” 

Louis feels his throat go dry. It’s not – whatever story Horan wants to construct in his head to grant Louis a shred of decency is ludicrous. Maybe it makes him feel better, thinking he didn’t completely misjudge Louis all these months. Thinking that there is some ridiculous noble reasoning behind Louis’ deceit. 

All Louis is supposed to do…the whole purpose of his life in the last decades has been to survive. There is no time or place to consider anyone but himself when it comes to this one mission that supersedes all. 

“You should get some rest,” he tells Horan and gets to his feet. The storm has gotten worse, and it’s getting dark, but Louis needs to get away for a while. “Who knows when you’ll next get the chance.” 

With that, he steps out into the rain.

 

 

***

  

 

Harry hates Liam’s private jet. Even pushing the absurdity of owning an airplane aside, and acknowledging that it would probably create too many problems for Liam to fly commercial, there is something about the sleek, polished interior and leather-y smell that doesn’t sit right with him. 

He doesn’t have a fear of flying, even though it’s not his favourite thing to do. He’s lost count of how many times he’s jumped out of a plane, with and without a parachute, and he is perfectly comfortable in the Quinjet. But this…it’s too – too much. Too big of a contrast to what they do, and what they’re about to do. A private jet-bubble that needs bursting. 

Liam is sitting opposite him, eyes focused on his tablet, expression unchanged since they took off towards South America just under two hours ago. He sincerely hopes SHIELDs agents are too distracted to notice that Liam hacked numerous satellites and data points and is still using them to narrow down the position of the Quinjet. They’re heading to Bogotá for now, strategically located in the center of the perimeter Liam has estimated. 

And they’ve been silent since the moment they’d left New York behind them. 

Liam had told him that there was no way he could get a more accurate reading on the data, so Harry isn’t sure why Liam still seems to study whatever is on the screen in front of him with such intent. He wonders if he should inquire what he’s looking at, if he even wants to know at this point, when something flashes brightly and draws his eye. 

His shield, leaning against the side of the seat that’s across the aisle, catches the last rays of sunlight like a perfect mirror, no blemishes on the polished, smooth surface despite the innumerable blows it has taken. Sometimes, Harry will brush his fingers over it absentmindedly, expecting a dent where the blast that catapulted Louis off the train hit. There should be a mark; a scratch, just a minimal trace to show it’s not just a nightmare that still grips Harry when he lies awake in the dark. 

He shakes his head and these thoughts, bringing back focus and a sharpness around the edges that wasn’t quite there before because of his mind wandering down a million different paths. The lines on Liam’s forehead seem more prominent all of a sudden, the line of his mouth set firmly, stoically as he stares at the table, still as a stature, and suddenly, Harry can’t bear the silence anymore. 

“What’s going on?” 

Liam doesn’t react in any way, and for a moment, Harry guesses he’s so deep in thought that he hasn’t registered that Harry is talking to him, but then he lets out a long breath, flings the tablet to the side where it lands on the other leather seat with a soft thud. Then Liam just – sinks into himself. He slumps back, facing the ceiling and brings his hands to his temples, rubbing in circular motion. 

“Liam?” 

“I don’t know,” Liam eventually replies with a sigh, scratching at his brow, disgruntled. “I’m not sure I can trust my judgment in this case. It seems – well. Just impossible, really.” 

Harry pauses. “Why? Why wouldn’t you trust your judgment?” 

Liam grimaces. “Haven’t exactly had the best track record lately, have I? I mean, you probably can’t compare that but –” 

“Then don’t,” Harry cuts him off. “You said it to me, now I’m saying it to you: let’s not obsess over all the mistakes we’ve made and instead focus on what we’re doing right now. Don’t mistrust your instincts because of one glitch.” 

“That’s not even it though,” Liam counters. “It’s not about my instinct. It really just is impossible and I think I might seriously be going mad.” 

With that, he reaches for the tablet, and Harry assumes it’s to give evidence of his supposed madness. Liam slides his index finger expertly over the screen, and a moment later, a little projection appears between them. A map, Harry can tell, and a closer look at it makes him think it’s a region of Colombia slightly blown up. It’s difficult to be entirely certain, because it is not a simple map, nor a satellite image, but something that seems to have been put through a variety of infrared filters. A number of red blotches are concentrated in one small area of what Harry reads as a mountain range, or at least elevated terrain, but what they mean is a mystery to him, and perhaps the source of Liam’s confusion. 

“It’s a gas,” Liam pipes up, following Harry’s gaze and anticipating his question. “A gas that should not be showing up on this scan because it should not exist.” 

It’s not the time to make a joke about Harry’s lack of knowledge concerning science, so he gets to the question right away. “Why shouldn’t it exist? How would you know of it if it didn’t?” 

“Well,” Liam sighs. His eyes flicker to the side. To Harry’s shield. Harry tries to connect those seemingly unrelated dots, but Liam decides that this is also not the time to delay important explanations. “I know of it, because it used to exist. Because I’ve seen similar scans in my grandfather’s files. But it should not exist anymore, because it is created when one specific type of metal is smelted.” 

Oh. “Vibranium,” Harry realises. 

“Exactly,” Liam confirms. “Your shield and – well…Tomlinson’s arm; that’s all that’s left. I mean…my family went back to Central Africa time and time again to see if they could find more, but it was just one dead end after the other.” He sighs wearily, perhaps remembering one of the stories he’s never shared with them, keeping his family and their demons to himself; so sure that they are all only his to bear and bear witness to. “The fact that traces of it suddenly show up in Colombia of all places just seems –” 

“Too much of a coincidence?” Harry completes Liam’s thought for him. “Yeah. It is too much of a coincidence. Which is why it probably isn’t one.” 

If someone really has stumbled upon a new Vibranium source in South America, the effects of that could be monumental, especially if it fell into the wrong hands. The price one would be able to negotiate for this indestructible metal is hard to imagine; the demand for it…not so much. Harry has no doubt that some nations might be happy to start wars to get their hands on this particular resource. It could plunge the region into chaos – and then the rest of the world could be quick to follow. 

“Zayn has an expansive network of informants,” Liam pipes up, once again disposing of his tablet now that he’s shown Harry what has been occupying his mind for the past few hours. “It probably trickled through to him, went to Cowell, and Cowell asked him to investigate.” 

“Cowell must’ve also told him to keep it quiet,” Harry continues. “Keep it off the record in case of a security breach. Or another mole. So Zayn left to investigate, and – and he got found out.” 

“And whoever is behind all of this,” Liam concludes, “had to get rid of Cowell. Because he knew.” 

“And framing Louis kept us all occupied long enough for them to erase all traces.” His heart clenches at how quickly they’d all taken the bait. But at least, Harry hopes, things seem to be falling into place. If their findings turn out to be true, it’s a much larger problem than Harry could have anticipated. “I still don’t see how Jones fits into all of this.” 

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, grimacing, right hand going to the arc-reactor embedded in his chest absentmindedly. “A SHIELD agent who’s been dead for years? I feel like we’re overlooking something big. Something obvious. Like Winston. He was right there in front of us the entire time and we still…” He trails off, no need to elaborate; no need to explain how that ended. 

Looking back, sure, there were obvious clues they missed, but also not enough to fully piece the puzzle together, and Harry feels that now, they’re in a similar position. They simply don’t know enough, don’t have enough information to be sure what all of this means. Liam’s discovery is a big piece, but how it fits in with everything else isn’t something they’ll figure out while on this jet. 

“Let’s focus on our next step before we try and predict the outcome of this,” he suggests. “Do we change course, or do we continue to head to Bogotá?” 

Liam mulls it over for a moment. “It would probably be safest,” he says, “and not draw too much attention, just in case anyone is watching. But it’s about three hundred miles from Bogotá to where I spotted the Vibranium.” 

“Louis and Niall have almost a day on us. If they’re even heading that way,” Harry adds when it dawns on him that even though it would be the logical conclusion for Zayn to follow that trail, it doesn’t mean he wound up there, and it doesn’t mean that Louis and Niall are doing so either. 

“It’s all we have to go on for now,” Liam says with a frown. “Niall’s priority is Zayn, and he knows him better than anyone, so if anyone can find him it’s Niall. We’ve got to count on him...well…reaching Zayn in time and not getting hurt in the process.” 

“He’s got Louis.” 

The expression that takes over Liam’s face when Harry says it is full of pity, like he can’t believe that Harry’s sorry ass still believes Louis hasn’t abandoned all of them. It would serve them well, Harry guesses, for jumping to conclusions, for not believing him. But there’s a part of Harry that just needs to believe that Louis would go with Niall, and help him. If only to wipe the slate clean; to repay any debt he might owe Zayn. He needs to believe that there’s still a chance they might catch up to them. 

He needs to believe that there’s still opportunity to turn all of this around. 

“Does he, though?” Liam asks. “We can’t know that for sure. We can just hope that both Zayn and Niall live up to their reputations and get out of this shitshow in one piece, so that we can focus on the Vibranium. Zayn falling off the face of the earth is a symptom, but this – this is the cause.” 

“What do you suggest then?” 

“We take the jet to Medellín,” Liam replies, his mind made up, determined. “That’s the closest we can get. From there…I’d say we stay incognito, rent a car, drive up towards Cerro San Lucas. I can get a more precise reading once I get JARVIS closer.” 

Harry allows himself a few seconds to let it sink in. “So…improvise?” 

Liam grins, a bit sheepishly. “When have we ever done anything else?”

 

  

Medellín is wet. It’s not just wet, but fucking miserable when they land after some turbulences - thanks to the terrible weather that persists once they’re on the ground, lights reflecting off the runway that shimmers like freshly laid tar. 

Harry wants to get on the road as quickly as possible, skin itching with how much he needs to get going and be useful, but they don’t know the area, they don’t really know exactly where they’re going, and two strangers trying to get a rental after hours by paying a large amount of cash – it might draw some unwanted attention.   

So Harry hides the shield as best as he can, pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide his face and follows Liam to a car that’s waiting to take them to an undoubtedly pompous hotel. They might not be able to conceal the fact that Liam Payne has arrived in Medellín, but they can at least pretend that it’s Payne Industries business he is attending to, and not anything related to the Avengers. 

Harry is too keyed up to argue with Liam about the far too big and lavish suite he gets for the night, especially since the night is already steadily progressing into early morning and they are certainly not going to find any sleep in the next handful of hours. Liam heads straight to the bar after he’s dumped the bag that hides his suit on one of the sofas in the lounge area and pours two drinks without asking Harry if he even wants one. 

Sniffing at it briefly, Harry decides to put the glass down after a quick sip. He’s not a fan of gin, especially with nothing but a bit of ice in it, and his stomach feels tight, stretched, not to be messed with. While Liam undoubtedly busies himself with his tech again, already trying to figure out more, pin down their destination as accurately as possible, Harry steps up to the balcony door, slides it to the side and allows the refreshingly cool air to hit his senses. 

It’s still raining, and it smells familiar, almost comforting. If it weren’t for the dark outline of the mountains on the horizon, the surprisingly high skyline and blinking lights might have fooled Harry into thinking they were still in Manhattan, and not on the cusp of the perhaps stupidest mission they’ve ever gone on. 

They’d agreed to improvise, to take this step by step to avoid jumping to conclusions, but Harry can’t help to worry what might happen if the news about a new Vibranium source starts to travel. The world is already becoming more dangerous and unbalanced every day, even without that thrown into the mix, people fighting for survival day in and day out. It’s cruelly reminiscent of the nineteen-fourties, humanity at a turning point, and this – this could very easily tip the scale. 

It seems ridiculous to even think it, but back then, it had been easy; easy to do the right thing, easy to actually know right from wrong, easy to know where to go (after Louis, always after Louis). 

“You’re not planning on jumping, are you?” 

Harry turns so rapidly that he almost loses his balance, hand reaching out to grip the window frame, making it groan from the pressure. Liam eyes him apologetically, but there’s also a bluntness to his expression that gives away he’s not particularly sorry for asking. 

“That’s not funny, Liam,” Harry says regardless. 

“It is a little bit,” Liam shrugs with a smirk and joins Harry by the window. “But I admit, bad timing. ‘S not my strength.” 

There is a long list of evidence that Liam’s comedic timing is way off, but he never has any malicious intent, and Harry isn’t offended per se. It just leaves a bitter aftertaste, giving his particular history in this area. He decides to not dwell on it, and swallow down the lump lodged in his throat and change the topic. 

“Do you think we should notify Azoff?” 

Liam folds his arms, teeth worrying his lower lip, his drink forgotten as it sits on the table next to Harry’s practically untouched glass. 

“I don’t think we should,” he says eventually. “We don’t know him, do we? World Security Council or not…who’s to say he didn’t orchestrate this whole show? I just don’t trust him yet.” 

“You don’t trust anyone,” Harry interjects. 

“Well,” Liam responds wryly, “considering that my long-time mentor, a man who was like a father to me, hired terrorist mercenaries to kill me so he could take control of my company… Can you blame me?” He raises his brows to underline his point, then lets his gaze drift back out over the city that’s in deep slumber. “But even if Azoff is clean, trustworthy, whatever. We don’t know who might have his ear, or access to him.” 

“Like Walsh?” Harry suggests, and that – as well – leaves a bitter taste that clings to the back of his throat. “It didn’t seem like Azoff was particularly fond of him. More the opposite.” Then something occurs to him. “Do you think Walsh might have something to do with all this? He was first in line to throw Louis under the bus, and quite eager to take over.” 

“Hm,” Liam hums, “but would he have blown up Cowell? He’s a fucking weasel, but he’s also a coward. Not sure he’d have the balls to pull this off. He’s just an opportunistic little shit.” 

That is a very accurate assessment, Harry has to admit. He’d never understood why Cowell kept Walsh around, given that he never seemed overly keen on him either. Perhaps because Walsh never showed integrity, and was happy to bend the rules if Cowell ordered him to do so, just to stay in his good graces. 

“I guess we’ll find out eventually,” Harry says, catching Liam’s gaze and holding it. “One way or another.” 

“One way or another,” Liam repeats solemnly and leans against the frame of the open balcony door. The rain doesn’t reach them there, but it bounces off the concrete floor, the metal railing, and a few drops ricochet far enough to hit Liam’s sleeve, creating a few darker spots on his grey shirt. “What are you going to do,” he eventually goes on, “when Louis doesn’t come back after all of this, regardless of the outcome?” 

Harry honestly tries not to think about that right now, but he guesses a bit of honesty doesn’t hurt. “I don’t know,” he simply replies, because he doesn’t, and no amount of time spent thinking about what he might do will make it any easier once he is faced with that. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.” 

“I’m not asking for that,” Liam tells him. “It’s just – I don’t want you to fall apart. Regardless of what happens, keep seeing Caroline, and keep going to the veteran meetings, and keep remembering that, you know…you deserve to live your life, yeah? I know how much Tomlinson means to you, but maybe – maybe with the way things are right now, it’s just not…meant to be.” 

Without meaning to, Harry bristles at that. Liam means well, and he is making sense, but this – this has never been about making sense. His and Louis’ journey…it’s never followed any logic. It’s never made sense, and it didn’t have to. 

“I can promise you,” he begins, taking a deep breath to steady his voice, “that regardless of what Louis decides to do, I will try and live my life, and do it as best as I can. I can promise you that I’ll talk to Caroline, and that I will meet with the other vets, keep working for SHIELD and anything else I can fit into my day. But one thing I cannot and will not promise is that I will stop believing that Louis and I belong together.” 

Liam opens his mouth, but Harry won’t allow him to interject. 

“We’re still here,” he continues. “We shouldn’t have even survived the war, and yet we did, and we somehow found our way to each other, again and again. There are countless things that should have killed us, and just as many that should have separated us for good. And yet…”  
Harry can recall each and every time. The winter he almost didn’t survive, frail body gripped with illness, waking up lucidly for the first time in weeks and seeing Louis hunched over the side of his bed. The cold, abandoned laboratory at the German base, Louis strapped down and half-dead, blinking up at him and whispering his name. Every mission, every bullet fired in their direction. Switzerland. 

A mask, breaking and falling to the ground. 

Every impossible moment that followed. 

“How does it feel?” Liam tears him away from his memories, so lost in them that Harry doesn’t quite understand his question. 

“What?”

“How does it feel?” Liam repeats. “Being so sure of something; of someone. And loving them so…completely?” He clears his throat, shuffles awkwardly on the spot. “I mean, I always thought I was in love, but – but hearing you talk about him… It makes me think that I don’t have a fucking clue.” 

It makes Harry pause. He’s used to being teased over his relationship with Louis, in good nature, but teased nonetheless. The most serious conversation he’s had concerning his feelings had been with Niall over a bottle of Irish Whiskey that Zayn had left for them to share when he and Louis had gone on their first mission together. Liam is happy to chat about many things, but they’ve never really talked much about their feelings or relationships. 

“I don’t know if I can really describe it,” Harry settles on with a shrug, not uncertain about what he feels but about doing the magnitude of those feelings justice. “Being around him…it drowns out all the noise. All my worries, and doubts, and thoughts, good or bad – it all ceases to matter. And I don’t want it to. I don’t need it to.” 

Liam’s lips twitch upwards into an almost-smile. “That sounds exhilarating. And also very terrifying. But I guess that would be hard to give up.” 

It’s not hard to filter out what Liam is implying by saying that. He’s convinced that Louis is already gone, or if he isn’t, won’t return to New York with them, and is already steering Harry towards accepting that. He cares deeply, and he has the best intentions, but he has bad timing, and – with regards to Louis – no idea what he’s talking about. 

“He’ll find his way back,” Harry says, even if that’s not a direct response to Liam’s words. “He will remember what we mean to each other, what we’ve been through. And he’ll come back to me.” 

He’s sure of it.

 

 

***

 

 

to be continued...

 

 


	6. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t gonna end well, is it?” Horan asks, and although it sounds rhetorical, Louis does answer this time.
> 
> “Did you honestly think otherwise?”
> 
> Horan shrugs, smirks at him, eyes tired but alert. “Guess not.”
> 
> A suicide mission. Louis had sensed it from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all: apologies. i know this has taken forever, but 2018 has not been kind to me so far and there is a lot i have to deal with, from phd to family to personal issues etc etc. in addition, this chapter has been super tricky to write. it is the last in the build-up to the actual action and is a lot of working through louis' mental state, which was pretty rough given my own state of mind. 
> 
> but it's done now, and i hope it's worth the wait. 
> 
> for those of you who wanted some more background on niall/zayn: this chapter is, in part, for you. 
> 
> since you have waited long enough, i will leave it at that, and hope that you enjoy the new chapter. i will do my best to make the wait for the next one shorter. and as always, feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: lots of swearing, as usual. mentions of violence.
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

***

 

It came back to him. Some of it. One time, in Vietnam. The war had been raging for too long, 1975 was quickly approaching, and he had been trekking through hostile terrain for weeks. They had sent him to South Vietnamese territory to gather intel in preparation for a strike against US-backed troops in the Phước Long Province when he’d seen it; discolored and frayed, peeling off of the rusty shutters of what had once been a store of some kind in an abandoned village. 

It had been dusk, the sun rising slowly, orange light filtering through the humid, thick air, and Louis – he’d suddenly felt frozen to the spot, unable to move, gaze fixed on a poster he’d only really noticed out of the corner of his eyes. 

A blue uniform, with red and white stripes. A star in the middle of the chest, in the middle of – of  a shield. A mask obscuring the face, but not the eyes. And Louis had realised that he’d seen it before; seen _him_ before. 

Louis’ stomach had lurched, and with unsettling nausea he’d stumbled forward, spitting bile onto the ground. Without thinking, he’d reached out and torn that old poster off. With trembling fingers, and without knowing why, he’d folded it up and tucked it away into a pocket of his jacket. 

But Louis had stayed on the predetermined route; stayed on it until searing pain had shot through his head, accompanied by the noise of a train thundering along its tracks, by an explosion – by a loud, drawn-out scream that was drenched in agony. Instead of heading east, he had continued north, steam train noises echoing in his ears and the inexplicable smell of snow in his nose. 

He had pushed through pain before, but nothing had ever hurt the way his head had as his mind, after weeks out in the field and twenty-minute naps every other day, slowly and agonizingly attempted to thread itself back together. In the midst of it, he’d forgotten where he was, and how he’d gotten there, what he was supposed to do because…because all of a sudden, nothing had felt right. 

Everything had been _wrong_. 

Louis had curled up, lost and confused, and he had stared at that damn poster for hours, willing his mind to work, to tell him what the hell had happened to him as the train thundered on, as shots he’d fired five, ten, fifteen years ago had made him flinch. As their screams – his own screams – had filled his head and he had started to believe he’d gone insane. 

They had caught up to him eventually, shooting through his left kneecap and right shoulder blade from behind, but Louis had dragged himself another two miles before the loss of blood had become too much, even for him. Falling forward, his knees sinking into mud, Louis had caught a glimpse of the bright blue sky through the trees and somehow, it had placed a single name on the tip of his tongue. 

_Harry._

He’d crumbled, darkness creeping in from the edges, and he had sent a prayer to whatever God was listening to let him bleed out and die in this forsaken place. 

When he finally regained consciousness, Louis had found himself strapped down, men in white lab coats surrounding his body, staring into a light so bright it hurt. He never remembered the next handful of moments, only the pain that followed; the cold, and the dark. 

But he did remember that it had still smelled of snow.

  

 

Louis opens his eyes when his head starts tilting towards his chest. He straightens with a start, inhales deeply through his nose to offset the spike in his pulse from having nodded off without meaning to. It’s still raining, he can tell even before his vision sharpens and his surroundings return to clarity. 

For a moment, he’s taken back to Vietnam; and for a moment, he can feel his left knee tingling with the ghost of the bullet that had shattered it. But the illusion doesn’t last long. Even without having regained his consciousness fully, Louis’ instincts are so sharp that it only takes a smidgeon of movement in his peripheral vision for him to be on his feet, and only the fraction of a second later, he has wrestled a body to the ground, one of his knives pressed to a pale throat. 

“Jeesh, dude,” Horan croaks, breath shallow as he tries not to move an inch. He’s got his arms raised, bare forearms now covered in mud as it drips, drips, drips around them. “Jumpy much.” 

Louis grinds his teeth together, pulls his hand back and retreats. He watches in silence as Horan touches the tips of his fingers to his Adam’s apple, coughing twice. His chest will be sore for a while. Louis didn’t press him into the dirt with all his strength, or he would have shattered his ribs. Part of Louis can’t help but think wryly that it might have finally shut him up at least. It will definitely hurt for a while, leave a forearm-sized bruise right across Horan’s sternum. 

“Bad dream?” 

Horan isn’t seriously asking. His lips are quirking upwards, hand still at his own throat, rubbing it absentmindedly as his eyes are focused on Louis, bright and inquisitive and so fucking intrusive. Louis ignores him and turns, and somehow it feels odd to put weight on his left leg, knee still prickling and throwing him off a little, and Louis hopes it doesn’t register with Horan. 

The last thing he needs now is more fucking questions. It’s not getting under his skin, no matter what Horan may think, but it’s prompting his mind to start wandering; it’s making him drift off farther than what is safe given their current predicament. They’ve drifted off into unknown and rather hostile territory physically – they do not need to go down this road mentally as well.

Damn, Louis can’t remember the last time he actually nodded off without meaning to. 

“We should get going,” he deflects without another look at Horan, gaze firmly fixed on their surroundings. Weather conditions remain less than ideal, but it has brightened minimally, and perhaps it is only wishful thinking, but Louis figures the downpour has lost a little of its strength as well. Any moment they continue to linger is another moment added to this fucking mission.

Horan, thankfully, is clever enough not to object and they take down their makeshift camp in the same stoic silence they set it up with hours ago. Just a few yards away from the river, Horan loses his footing in the mud, stumbles over what Louis assumes to be a root hidden in the loosened up ground, and goes down with a hiss, the side of the boat hitting his shoulder in an undoubtedly painful fashion. 

Louis clenches his jaw, adjusts his grip and walks the last stretch alone, muscles groaning only slightly but pleasantly enough; a relieving reminder that although he may have become mildly rusty, everything is still there, brewing under the surface, and part of him hopes they come across adversaries soon so that he can see how quickly it might boil over. 

Once the boat is afloat once more, Horan joins him, part of his shirt ripped off and tied tightly around his calf where he must have cut himself. He is a fraction paler than before, and Louis bites down any comment that might insinuate Horan could slow them down. It isn’t his fault that he’s plain human. Hell, sometimes Louis even envies him for it. 

He can feel Horan’s glare, daring him to say something, but Louis takes a deep breath through his nose, smells the rain and the muddy water and the dwindling fuel sitting in their tank, and climbs into the creaky vessel. Horan follows, the strain showing on his face but not in his movements as he downright refuses to show anymore weakness in front of Louis. 

The engine splutters back to life after a handful of tries. Louis has taken it upon himself to steer this time, simply for practical reasons. He has better eyesight, better reflexes, and his involuntary rest earlier has recharged him for another three days at least. The quietness persists as they continue down the Magdalena River, the pitter-patter of rain and the rumbling of the engine providing a monotonous soundtrack that, after two hours, becomes just irritating enough for Louis to almost wish Horan’s chatter would pick up again. 

Louis watches him for a while, sitting right at the prow of the boat and staring out into this miserable patch of jungle with an intensity that one can probably only expect from someone searching for his lover. Distractedly – detachedly – Louis wonders if that is how Harry looked out over Manhattan when he left the first time; the second time. A smaller, more selfish and bitter part figures there might have been a different look on his face when the mountains of Switzerland had faded behind him and Harry had decided to go on without him. 

Well, Louis thinks, throat suddenly disconcertingly tight, he guesses both Malik and Horan at least made their own choices, even if they couldn’t and still cannot quite control the outcome. Malik decided to do this alone, for reasons Louis has yet to understand. And Horan decided to follow him, which – to be fair – is a reaction Louis finds understandable, even if it is a stretch to call it rational. 

He has not been able to make his own choices in a really long time. 

And somehow, he can’t help but be curious about what choices Horan might make given the numerous outcomes this unfortunate mission might produce. A voice in his head that sounds far too like Harry tells him he’s only doing this because he needs to prod, because he’s an insufferable pain in the ass if he wants to be. But Louis tunes it out just as quickly as it pipes up. It is entirely reasonable to inquire about these things because whatever Horan does will undoubtedly effect Louis as well. 

“What will you do if he’s dead?” 

Horan’s head, unintentionally, Louis presumes, snaps around quickly, pale eyes wider than they usually are. Absentmindedly, Louis recalls that he mostly sees Horan squint, as if he’s always subconsciously aiming at a target. He catches himself quickly, but Louis can see how his jaw clenches, how his fingers tighten where they’re holding onto the boat. 

“Why would you ask that?” and he sounds somehow disappointed, and then again not surprised at all. 

Louis doesn’t ponder on Horan’s tone and expression. “Because it is more likely that he is dead than alive, especially considering the time that’s passed already. That’s just a fact.” 

“Fuck facts,” Horan bites back emphatically. “You know who he fucking is. He’s not dead.” 

“The odds aren’t in his favour.” They’re simply not. Louis knows perfectly well what Malik is capable of. He’s worked alongside him, he has enough intel to understand what it would take for Malik to be taken out. But he’s already captured, most likely in a severely weakened state. It would simply be…inconceivable not to get rid of him right away. 

“If revenge is what they’re after,” Louis elaborates, “and they didn’t kill him on the spot but decided to drag it out, it is still highly unlikely that he’d survive this long. They would only keep him alive if they wanted to set a trap. And I am not walking into that without you being prepared for what may or may not be left of your boyfriend.” 

Horan’s expression is as grim as the weather that’s been stubbornly surrounding them this entire time – and equally stoic. Perhaps he believes he can reverse time by sheer force of will. 

“He’s not dead,” Horan repeats, like that might change reality as well; like it might alter their and Malik’s fortunes. “Because this isn’t how our story ends, alright? Not like this. Not here. Not in fucking Colombia, stuck on a fucking boat with _you_.” Says it, and turns back, eyes back on the gloomy terrain where the previous gentleness of the mountain slopes is starting to be replaced by more looming shadows, stream narrowing and everything closing in on them as they creep along. 

It’s a rather poetic view, Louis guesses, and he could allow Horan to keep it, this idea of stories being finite; this idea that life works that way, if you want it hard enough. He can forgive Horan this fragment of unexpected naivety. Horan’s only lived a fraction of one life. Louis has lived dozens – hundreds, he feels sometimes. 

Coming out of cryo, waking up cold and disoriented like a child with no mind of his own; a new, cruel beginning each time. A continuous reminder that life isn’t a story, and it has no real beginning, and no real end. It is a series of scraps – some bright, some impossibly dark. 

“You know how it started?” Horan suddenly pipes up, sounding wistful, pulling Louis away from his own thoughts again, which is not entirely unwelcome. 

And Louis has to admit – he’s intrigued. At first sight, setting their careers in intelligence aside, they seem to be too different to even coexist, let alone share a bed. Even observing Malik and Horan more closely, in private settings, has not answered many of Louis’ questions as to how they function as a unit. Because they do, undoubtedly, Louis has to admit despite early bafflement and confusion; function, that is. 

Louis remains perplexed what benefit their companionship has for either of them, but in particular Malik, who is highly efficient and operational on his own and who does not strike Louis as a person who is in grave need of intimacy and emotional support. Horan offering up to shed some more light on this unlikely affair could aid him in finally uncovering hidden weaknesses in the two SHIELD agents that might be beneficial in the future. 

“We met in Singapore. Well,” Horan shrugs, “I say _met_ ,” and draws quotation marks in the air. The right corner of his mouth twitches with the memory. “Chinese mafia. SHIELD had an informant amongst a group of them who were there for a dodgy arms deal with some Russians. I was there to keep our agent safe in case it escalated. Middle of the night, at the port. A bloody maze of containers, and the stench was fucking unbearable, I tell ya. Hot as hell, too.” 

Louis has not been to Singapore. Bangkok, yes, as well as far too many places in Cambodia, Vietnam and both Koreas. He knows what kind of stench Horan is talking about, and the atrocious heat that lingers in every street even after sundown in the summer months. 

“Black Widow was known to SHIELD, even though we didn’t know much,” he continues. “But there hadn’t been any sightings in months, and there had not been any indication anyone besides us knew what was going down. So, you know, imagine my surprise when the crates full of flippin’ Kalashnikovs blew up and a second later, someone kicks my sternum so hard it practically shatters.” 

The quiet laugh that follows is both fond and dry. Horan rubs his chest with an absentminded look on his face, is probably not aware he is even doing it. 

“Not exactly a meet-cute. But fucking perfect, eh? Literally took my breath away before I had the chance to even twitch. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor, a knee pressing down on my throat so hard my neck was probably seconds away from snapping. But somehow, my vision was still sharp, and even though it was real fucking dark, I could see him so clearly, you know?” 

He turns back to Louis then and asks, “And you know what I thought?” But he isn’t expecting Louis to guess. Horan takes a breath, and despite his voice never wavering, Louis can tell it’s very close to breaking. 

“He was way too thin, too tired and too damn haunted, but I just remember looking at him for the first time and thinking that he was the most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen, and that I didn’t even care if he killed me.” Another self-deprecating laugh, another shrug. “And then he just vanished and left me with a cracked sternum, a bruised throat and a few weeks of recovery where I had way too much time to fantasise.” 

Horan says it like it’s romantic and Louis guesses that for someone like him, who has essentially never known normal life, normal interactions, normal relationships…it most likely is. From a purely objective point of view, Louis also cannot deny that Malik is the textbook definition of beautiful, making it perfectly reasonably for Horan to be instantly struck by his looks. 

But Louis can’t really empathise. He knows he’d been in love once, but he can’t recall the exact moment he understood it as such, and he can’t trace back to the exact moment in time it ended, if there even is one. He can’t even remember what it felt like and that slightly sour and bitter taste he suddenly finds on his tongue – it might be envy of Horan’s vivid memories. 

Or envy of something else entirely. 

“Few weeks later,” Horan thankfully cuts off Louis’ own thoughts, “Cowell calls me in, says they got intel that Black Widow has been acting as a free agent, and that there is a window of opportunity to take him out; that SHIELD needs to seize that opportunity. And that I would be most likely to successfully complete that mission.” 

A kill order. From Cowell’s point of view an entirely logical decision. Any agent of Malik’s calibre is a threat operating at the command of an adversary. But an agent like Malik going rogue, becoming available to the highest bidder with no means to anticipate the next course of action is a threat that requires immediate elimination. 

Something Horan was undoubtedly aware of, even then. “I had a track record, you see,” he elaborates. “Never failed a mission. Never disobeyed an order. And to be honest, when I left to find Zayn, I didn’t have the intention to fail or disobey.” 

“Why did you change your mind?” Louis asks. Despite the initial attraction, the instant infatuation, an agent like Horan would not allow feelings like that to compromise him just like that. 

“Because it was like looking in a fucking mirror,” Horan replies, shaking his head minimally like he still can’t quite believe what happened. “Afghanistan,” he adds then, as if there’s not need to say much else, “an unfortunate run-in with black-ops. Clean shot through his leg, not life-threatening, but he lost a lot of blood. I tracked him for miles, and it was…fucking painful. Finally caught up to him south of Khost.” 

Probably trying to get to Pakistan, Louis’ mind supplies automatically. 

“He could barely stand and still managed to dislocate my shoulder and break three fingers,” he says and holds up the three fingers Malik broke years ago. Right hand. Wouldn’t have been able to shoot an arrow after that. Considering what Malik’s physical and mental state would have been, it is rather impressive that he’d still been able to inflict strategic injuries. 

“And he refused to back down, refused to give me an inch without fighting me tooth and nail. It would have been easy to kill him, in the end. Easy, but not fair. And I just – I saw myself. As fucking cliché as it sounds,” Horan sighs. “He wasn’t doing this because he enjoyed it, or because he felt some displaced sense of duty. He never made a choice. It was the only thing he knew.” 

Louis suppresses the tightness in his throat that creeps up hearing Horan’s words. Malik and he are not friends, but they understand one another precisely because of that. There is no life they could have ever gone back to. And he figures it is the same for Horan. 

“I’ve done bad things,” Horan says. “But I’m not a bad person. When SHIELD found me they could’ve killed me too and they didn’t. They gave me a chance. And I wanted to do that for him. Give him a chance – a choice.” 

It stings. This is what they tried to do for him, Louis guesses. Too bad having a choice doesn’t equate having all the options. 

“He didn’t agree immediately, of course. But eventually, he did. Never really told me why,” Horan muses with a soft smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “But I guess he might’ve seen himself in me too. I mean…same with you, right? We can tell, if someone else has seen what we’ve seen; if someone else’s hands are just as bloody as ours.” 

The smile growing crooked, Horan fixes his gaze onto a spot in the distance where the mountains turn darker and start to blend in with the sky, the river widening and narrowing irregularly, interspersed with small islands, some partially submerged due to the rising gauge, only tops of shrubbery visible as they disrupt the surface. 

“So he came back with me, just like that. Wasn’t quite sure what was gonna happen, but I gave Cowell hell; told him if he didn’t give Zayn a fair shot, I would make it very difficult for SHIELD and – surprisingly, he just acquiesced. Probably already had wet dreams imagining what Zayn could do for SHIELD.” 

A dry chuckle. “It didn’t take long, you know? People probably think I spent months –years – chiselling away at all of his walls. But we were fucking before my fingers had even properly healed.” Horan snorts, wipes a hand over his face and quirks a brow. “Made things a bit tricky, let me tell you. Couldn’t quite wrap my head around how much I wanted him. How fucking exhilarating it was to have found someone who really saw me, all of me, and wanted it. 

“Overwhelming too, and fucking terrifying, to fall in love so suddenly and headfirst, and despite all the talk about choice to not have one in this case.” He takes a significant pause and for a brief moment, the grief that’s gripped him since Malik’s disappearance is practically tangible. “The person our dear Captain fell in love with would probably understand,” Horan tells him, and something icy begins to claw at Louis’ chest. “You, perhaps not.” 

No, Louis thinks. No, he wouldn’t understand – couldn’t, even if he tried. And he has tried; has dug deep for those memories, buried and hidden away so they couldn’t shed light as darkness took over his mind for good. In spite of recovering some of them, most of them, all of them or none of them at all…he still doesn’t understand. Can’t seem to dig deep enough, can’t be sure which of these memories are real and which are not. 

Sometimes, when Louis lies awake in the dark and it’s too still, too quiet, he fears that all of it is a dream and he is still stuck in cryo, about to be woken up and wiped so that nothing will ever be real for him again. 

And despite the muggy heat, Louis feels cold.

  

 

***

  

 

The engine of the rundown Jeep Liam purchased with a crumpled wad of cash is far too loud. It doesn’t sound like it’s going to survive much longer, but then again, they’ve been on the road for a couple of hours already and it’s not died on them yet. Harry counts that as a win. 

The road they’re on that is supposed to take them further North-East and closer to the area Liam has pinpointed is almost entirely deserted. Less than a dozen cars have come towards them, milky headlights barely breaking through the heavy curtain of rain that’s hammering down onto the roof in a rapid staccato, making a nerve just below Harry’s left eye twitch. 

Since they turned onto Route 62 a while ago, the quality of the road has continuously deteriorated. Potholes and cracks and sharp corners that shouldn’t make Harry’s stomach lurch the way it does considering he’s been down roads that were far worse than this; both literally and figuratively. 

“How can it still be this fucking hot?” Liam pipes up suddenly, wiping sweat from his brow. He’s sweated through his Henley as well, although Harry is pretty sure the humidity is mostly to blame for that. This piece of junk on four wheels naturally doesn’t have functioning air-conditioning. “I mean, seriously. It’s like a bloody sauna.” 

It’s not like Harry doesn’t register that it feels like they’re sitting in a greenhouse. Because of it, he’s ditched his uniform for now, opting for a simple t-shirt to go with his pants and boots, the shield within arm’s reach just in case.   

And yet… “Once you’ve been frozen solid, you’ll never complain about heat again,” he says and can’t help but feel bemused at Liam’s horrified expression. 

“Shit, yeah,” he mutters, “I guess that’s true. I always forget you were technically an icicle.” 

Harry doesn’t say that it’s tough to forget when you’re the one who was the actual icicle. They have other things to worry about as of now. SHIELD is in shambles at the same time as three members of their team have disappeared into the Colombian jungle, while – apparently – something entirely else is secretly brewing in the mountains north of here that may have dire consequences for all of them. 

They just managed to contain HYDRA this year – contain, and not entirely destroy – and that was without HYDRA having hold of an indestructible armory. If whatever is left of that organization were to get their hands on weapons made from vibranium…Harry isn’t even sure what they could possibly do against that. 

It makes him think of the Red Skull, of Tesseract-powered blasters and train compartments being torn in half; of deep, frozen canyons and an unbearable pressure around his heart. As always, it makes him feel short of breath, so Harry forces his gaze to focus on the narrow road that lies ahead, a winding, black path through a green as deep and rich as he’s never seen before. 

It’s nothing Harry actually thinks about a lot – that he’s barely travelled. That he’s barely seen anything but New York and Brooklyn and a horrid, war-torn Europe. Even on missions with SHIELD that have taken him halfway around the globe, he hasn’t seen much of the world. Hell, it’s not like he’s ever taken an actual holiday. First, there hadn’t been any money for it (they’d barely scrounged up enough to pay for rent and food), and now, there’s just not been the time. Harry doesn’t even know if he’d like it. 

But he likes seeing all this green, even if it is under less than ideal circumstances. It’s nice, even comforting perhaps, to know that the world can be something other than dead and frozen. 

“If it’s really vibranium,” he eventually starts, allowing his eyes to flicker towards Liam briefly, “why do you think it’s taken so long to find it? Why did nobody come across it until now?” 

Hands continuing to firmly grip the steering wheel, Liam shrugs. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t believe there is a specific reason for it. I mean, vibranium came to Earth via meteorite some ten thousand years ago and only ever found in two places. One was Antarctica, and my grandfather got his hands on it from some dodgy guy who’d brought it back from Central Africa, and he used it to make your shield. Went back hundreds of times, searched for more as obsessively as he searched for you.” He sighs. “I guess it didn’t occur to him to look anywhere else, and technology wasn’t advanced enough to really pick up faint traces.” 

“So chances are that if somebody found more, they found it by accident,” Harry concludes and Liam nods his assent. 

“They’ve been mining for emeralds in this area for a while,” he tells Harry. “Wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that aside from emeralds, they stumbled over something else. What I’m struggling with though…” Liam trails off, worries his lip. 

“What?” 

Liam drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Colombian emeralds are the shit. Worth a hell of a lot. And from my understanding contributed a lot to civil unrest, both sides trying to harness the profits. So imagine if one of those sides had found vibranium.” 

Harry can only imagine. “They would have used it,” he says. Finding vibranium amidst civil unrest could have tipped the scales quickly and easily. “And the world would have noticed.” 

Suddenly, Liam’s goes very still. The tapping on the steering wheel stops, his face goes blank. “Unless,” he starts, eyes flickering to Harry and back, “the people who found it weren’t Colombian.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Liam’s expression turns wry. “Not sure how much history you’ve caught up with, Cap,” he begins, “but since you were frozen for most of the twentieth century, you might have missed that the US of A was quite happy to – let’s say – reshuffle entire governments if they weren’t quite what they wanted them to be. For the greater good, of course,” he adds with a roll of his eyes. 

“It’s one of the reasons my father and grandfather eventually…stopped talking, you know? My grandfather was pragmatic, he’d been in a war, and my father was more idealistic. Said it wasn’t right to arm militant groups to overthrow a democratically elected government just because it was socialist.” Liam sighs, slows down the car as he manoeuvres it past a particularly nasty looking crack in the road. “I mean…anyway. A lot of American special troops in South America at the time, under the radar of course.” 

It doesn’t take Harry long to catch on. “So if American or America-affiliated special agents somehow found a new reserve of vibranium…” 

“They would have reported it to their superiors,” Liam finishes the sentence. “Who were undoubtedly at the very top of the food chain.” 

“And used to keeping secrets,” Harry figures with a frown. He never thought he’d be nostalgic for the 1940s and the war he fought in, but at least it was pretty clear who they were fighting for and against. Since coming back, it has become clearer and clearer that those things aren’t easy anymore. Especially since the encounter with Winston, Harry has become rather aware of the fact that the world has moved away from black and white and now consists of far too many shades of grey. 

“But even if that is what happened,” he wonders out loud, “I find it difficult to believe nobody would want to harness new vibranium right away. Especially given the geo-political climate of the last couple of decades.” 

Liam hums his assent, lifts his left hand to wipe some sweat off his forehead. “You would think they would’ve loudly knocked on Payne Industries’ doors to turn this shit into weapons asap.” 

“So why keep it quiet? Why not use it?” 

That’s where they’re missing a crucial piece of information. All of this is pure speculation, and until they find out exactly what they’re dealing with, there’s no way they can be sure about anything. But this seems to be the one bit that doesn’t fit the narrative. Anyone – absolutely _anyone_ – coming across something as rare and as valuable as vibranium would use it, in one way or another. 

“That’s the gazillion dollar question, isn’t it?” Liam muses. “If you found an untouched reserve of vibranium…or if one of your men found and reported it to you – what would stop you from using it?” 

“Nothing.” The answer comes very easily. Harry can’t imagine anyone in intelligence, military or even government shrugging this off and not utilising what is worth so much more than even the greatest goldmine. But perhaps… “Perhaps I would want to keep it to myself. Perhaps I’d see it as a chance to really get ahead in the world.” 

Liam’s lips twitch in a joyless smile. “Perhaps you wouldn’t want to share. Fuck knows there are corrupt people everywhere. Corrupt and really damn greedy.” 

They both know that all too well. “If that’s the case,” Harry goes on, “then there are a couple of people who needed to be silenced.” 

“Like Simon Jones?” 

“Like Simon Jones,” Harry nods. “He could have been one of the agents who found the vibranium. And maybe they killed him to make sure nobody got wind of what they’d stumbled on. Then they erased all evidence of what happened to him.” 

“Why now though? Why is all of this happening now?” Liam asks, eyes narrowing as he continues to drive through a curtain of rain. They’re climbing higher and higher into the dense clouds, and Harry’s neck begins to prickle in anticipation of whatever is waiting for them at the end of this strange journey. 

“I think that might be our fault,” he replies and surprises himself with it. “I mean…we arrived on the world stage, didn’t we? Demand for indestructible weapons must have shot through the roof.” 

“And now they’re selling to the highest bidder?” 

Fucking hell, Harry thinks, he really hopes they’re wrong. He locks eyes with Liam, just for a brief moment. Up above, lightning flashes, and thunder begins to rumble. 

“Let’s hope we’re not too late.”

  

 

***

  

 

In the end, they nearly miss it. As the day draws to a close, murky brown water getting darker and darker as the current pulls them farther North until they’re smack dab between Bolivar and Santander, the mountains to their left grow taller until they disappear into the dense clouds. 

Louis’ eyes observe the river ahead, its bank to their right, which is why he thinks Horan has lost his mind when he suddenly leaps out of the boat and jumps headfirst into the water. He kills the engine right away, and hopes he doesn’t have to save Horan from drowning before he slings their bags over one shoulder with a groan and leaps over the edge of the boat after him. 

With his left arm, he grabs the boat before it can float downstream and uses the full strength of his prosthetic to work against the strong undercurrent. Only when he’s close to the shore, waves sloshing over his face and hindering his vision, does he see where Horan is clambering out of the river, drenched to the bone and practically on all fours. Because up there, just pushed far enough to be safe from the rising tide, is another boat. A pale green, splattered with mud, a few branches haphazardly thrown over it to shield it from view. 

It looks like it’s been here for weeks. 

Louis clenches his teeth, throws their bags ashore and pulls himself out of the water with one arm. “I’ve got half a fucking mind to wring your neck you fucking –” but he bites his tongue, swallows another slew of curses and quickly ties their own boat to a branch that looks like it’s going to hold, at least for now. 

When he straightens, Horan is already removing the shrubbery covering what most likely was Malik’s method of transport, even though, at first glance, it doesn’t look like he’s left any traces behind, meaning that they cannot know for sure. Horan is frantic, face blank but eyes flittering about, unable to keep still. Louis debates hitting him across the face to get him to stop for a moment, to just breathe and think, because right now…right now this looks like a dead fucking end. 

They’re surrounded by rainforest, the Magdalena River to one side, and what Louis believes to be the Serranía de San Lucas on the other, with the only possible clue that Malik was even here in the form of a brittle, dirty little barge at their feet. 

And Horan is not fucking helping. If he can’t handle the sight of an abandoned boat, Louis thinks wryly, how is he supposed to handle the sight of his boyfriend when…or rather _if_  they find him? 

“Get a grip,” he snipes, before he picks up his backpack and secures it around his torso, the weight sitting against his body in familiar fashion. Louis lets his eyes take in their immediate surroundings; the dense underbrush of the forest, the constant pitter-patter of the rain hitting the leafy canopy above their heads, the steep rise of the terrain up ahead. It occurs to him that this would be an ideal spot for a trap. An ideal spot to stun and overpower an agent who is not familiar with this particular part of the country and who might have underestimated his opponents. 

Louis refuses to make an error like that. 

Despite the lack of recent practice, it still only takes him a few seconds to assemble and load his rifle to have it at the ready as he narrows his eyes, trying to see if there is anything that seems out of the ordinary. Whether Malik was taken from here or whether he made his way inland before something happened to him – there need to be some traces of activity left. Any tracks or clues intentionally left behind have certainly been washed away by the incessant rainfall (Louis thinks it’s a damn miracle they found the boat at all). But fortunately, over the last couple of decades, Louis has come to realise that any person, no matter how clever, no matter how careful, will leave a mark. 

( _He_ won’t. He will make damn fucking sure of that.) 

It is after Louis takes a moment, shuts out Horan’s curses and the patter of the rain and the roaring of the river until all he hears is his own heartbeat, that he finds that Malik left the boat here by his own free will, and that he made his way uphill on his own. Because just up there where the first line of trees of this sheer endless forest begins, is a small, cracked branch. 

Malik knows how to move without leaving anything behind that an untrained or unskilled eye would see. But Louis has been tracking incredibly skilled and incredibly stealthy people since before Malik was born, and he sees it all. If anyone had tried to take Malik by force, there would be more than one broken twig. But this is a sign of Malik steadily slinking through the trees, body angled just so, back curved and eyes ahead, a piece of tree so small it didn’t make a sound getting pulled with him before finally being bent so far it just had to break. 

There will be more ahead, and although Louis can’t know what direction Malik decided to head in, he knows how people like them think. Strategically, he doubts Malik would have been willing to move too far away from the river, in case he’d be forced to escape and find his way back to his method of transportation. And something tells him, even he didn’t entirely know what or who he was looking for. 

Malik is known for his precision. And this entire scavenger hunt has been anything but. 

Louis knows Horan will follow him, so he goes ahead, rifle at the ready, and begins making his way through the underbrush. It’s hot, and despite the rain not entirely being able to penetrate the dense accumulation of trees, it’s wet, and muddy, the air thick and not quite thin yet, but breathing it in doesn’t do much to fill his lungs with oxygen. 

He does hardly make a sound as he moves; not one that’s distinguishable from the steady downpour anyway. Horan catches up to him quickly and moves equally silent, but Louis can feel his presence at his back. Synchronised steps, left and right, left and right, mud squelching and sticking to their legs; the arms of the rainforest stretching out for them, tentatively at first, but Louis doesn’t doubt, as they get more and more submerged into this evergreen ocean, that it will start clawing at them sooner or later. 

His eyes find the barely there traces, evidence that Malik walked this very path, a steady course that hints at him having picked up on a trail that is not visible for Louis anymore. Louis is starting to suspect that Malik might have had coordinates, that it wasn’t as much a treasure hunt as it appeared at first, and as it is for them. If Malik had known where to go after all, and he’d known how to get there, he might have picked this route to throw someone off his trail – or to avoid eyes that had been expecting him. 

But they still got him. 

Louis’ grip on his rifle tightens. It gives him – not comfort, not exactly peace of mind (never that, no fucking peace for him) either, but there aren’t many things as familiar to him as its weight in his arms. It is the only constant in his life. The only thing that persisted even when he’d forgotten everything else. Louis had never forgotten that this was the first thing he’d ever excelled at; that this was the first thing that had come to him frighteningly easy. 

Perhaps he’d been doomed from this moment on. Perhaps Horan and this fucking country are making him melodramatic. 

He wants to wipe this damn sweat off of his face, but Louis refuses to loosen up the grip on his rifle, even though he’s quite sure they have a fair bit to go; hours at least, perhaps even a few days. Malik’s trail might be leading them to the very top of the Serranía de San Lucas, but it might very well lead them well past it. And he needs to stay alert. He has never relied on anyone to have his back and Horan is too unreliable, too unstable, currently slowing him down 0.047 seconds per two hundred feet, which makes Louis’ jaw clench. It will increase undoubtedly as they go on. Louis will not bring it up now, but if Horan wants his boyfriend to have even a smidgeon of a fighting chance, he might have to stay back and let Louis handle this on his own. Horan would refuse, Louis is certain. He doesn’t trust him, but with Malik’s life on the line, that is something Horan will have to swallow. 

For now though, Louis keeps moving, setting a neck-breaking pace towards North, before tilting left, North-West, inching closer to the higher mountains of the massif. Horan’s limp gets worse, his breathing growing more laboured by the hour. Soon it’s three, four, five hours since they left the edge of the river, and night is falling, practically no light penetrating the thick canopy above them, making it more and more difficult to see, to move, to follow the trail. 

Difficult, but not impossible. They can’t rest now. 

In the dark, the temperature drops, not by much, but with their bodies soaked to the bone, it still leaves them cold and uncomfortable. Another two hours in, Louis thinks he begins to feel the hint of a strain in his right arm, the tension and weight his shoulders have to bear because of the prosthetic despite all the reinforcements and enhancements starting to affect him. 

Louis grits his teeth, adjusts his fingers on his rifle, the metal plates of his arms whirring as he flexes his left hand for a second and then – 

And then he steps into a clearing. 

As if someone had lifted a heavy cloak, the darkness is suddenly incrementally lighter, because the dense rainforest that had surrounded both of them until just a moment ago is gone. Just like that. To his feet, Louis can see the remains of what appears to have been aggressive and thorough deforestation. 

Horan steps up to his right, and despite it still being night time, it is now bright enough for Louis to see the way his brows start knotting as he takes in this strange anomaly they’ve come across. 

It’s a circle, a rather accurate one at that, its diameter roughly fifty feet. 

“What the fuck,” Horan pipes up, “is this?” 

Louis does not answer. It is clear to both of them what this is. The question that is far more pressing, however, is why it’s here, and who caused it. This isn’t a sight for hunters and hikers to collect firewood. If it were a government run project, there’d be more than one sign indicating it. And there would be a makeshift road leading to this fucking place, because this was not done by bare hands. Whatever machinery was used to carve out a circular patch out of a damn mountainside – logically – must have been bigger than a man. 

But, across the clearing, barely visible in the park, only seems to be a narrow path, just wide enough for one person to walk along it, leading higher up the mountain range. 

Next to him, Horan huffs, a dry laugh crawling out between his chapped lips. “Like a fucking corn circle, man. If this is aliens again, I’m gonna bloody hang myself.” 

Louis doesn’t point out that those are man-made. Horan knows that. He’s cracking a joke to ease the tension that’s been encompassing them for hours now, and Louis can’t deny that it works. A little. 

“This isn’t gonna end well, is it?” Horan asks, and although it sounds rhetorical, Louis does answer this time. 

“Did you honestly think otherwise?” 

Horan shrugs, smirks at him, eyes tired but alert. “Guess not.” 

A suicide mission. Louis had sensed it from the start. 

 

 

They don’t follow the carved out, narrow path that – as it turns out – leads to another small circle, and then another one, out of caution. It doesn’t appear as if anyone has come back here for a while, but neither one of them wants to risk it. They stay close though, not needing to search for signs that Malik was here anymore. There’s no doubt in Louis’ mind that he had stumbled across the very same phenomenon, determined to find its source. 

The circles’ size, perhaps random at first, indicates that there is someone behind them who knows what areas would be unprotected, understands international surveillance to a degree that they knew only slightly larger patterns and objects would be picked up by satellites. 

Someone intimately familiar with both this country and covert intelligence operations. For a brief moment, Louis wonders if the Red Room might be involved after all, but he quickly discards that theory again. He knows the Red Room and all its affiliates like the back of his hand. They would have done this in Siberia. Even if luring Malik into a trap hadn’t been their primary target, they would have never started an operation in South America when there was so much territory they were more familiar with. 

But with HYDRA scattered the way it is… Louis has, over the decades, come in contact with every big player in the underworld, in one way or another. Most of them had stayed away from South America, for various reasons. The political climate might have been easy to exploit, but always with the United States looming too close, various fingers in a whole variety of different pots, it had never seemed worth the effort. US intelligence was everywhere, its operatives supplying weapons, training militia… 

Louis isn’t the kind of agent Malik is. But he’s been in this life for a long time. If he combines what he knows, what he’s observed, with the hard evidence that is laid out for him here, he can only come to one conclusion: whoever is behind this is an American. And additionally, this person must have been military or intelligence, stationed in South America for a significant amount of time, and at some point, this person must have crossed paths with Malik. 

If Louis boils it down to that, the answer is shockingly simple. There is only one place where Malik could have crossed paths with someone like that. 

SHIELD.

It zings down Louis’ spine. Makes his back go straight and his throat tight. He listens out for Horan’s limp, but all he hears for a few steps, a few seconds, is his own blood rushing in his ears, and it settles within his frame. It settles within his frame as a confirmation of a gut feeling he’s had for quite a while yet. 

That nothing and nobody is thoroughly good. That even an organisation like SHIELD that presents itself the way it does, that was presented to him by Cowell in the way he had, has its rotten parts it’s trying so hard to hide; that it is trying to push onto unfortunate fucks like Louis who can either play along or face prosecution. 

Maybe he should be grateful that some shmuck decided to blow up SHIELD’s Director and blame it on him. That he’s getting out of there even with a few bumps in the road. 

Regardless, he decides to keep his suspicions to himself for the time being. If Malik came into contact with this person, then perhaps Horan did, unbeknownst to him, too. There is always the possibility that an agent is compromised, and they don’t have to even be aware of it. 

It is the same instinct that instantly made him distrust Cowell that tells him they’re getting closer even before he starts seeing a soft glimmer above the trees, just before the climb uphill becomes even steeper, leading to a peak that is hidden in the clouds, in the dark. A faint glow, stemming from what Louis assumes are floodlights to illuminate another deforested area. The trees absorb a lot of sound, but the closer they get, the clearer they can hear it; voices, harsh, yelling orders in Spanish, a car door slamming, heavy goods placed on the back of trucks. 

Louis’ rifle is loaded and ready. He crouches down, gets closer to the ground, narrows his eyes and concentrates on the voices. At least a dozen men, most likely armed but weapons unknown, perimeters of the area they’re moving in not distinguishable from this distance, an unidentifiable number of vehicles.  

He slows down, feels Horan press close to his back, giving whoever their adversaries are a smaller target. They move as one, careful steps planted close together, without sound as they get closer and closer. Louis can understand what they’re saying; orders to move faster, to load the trucks quicker, to work harder, _malparidos._  

Then it comes into view; a clearing much like the others, larger and set against a rock face that is a jarring contrast to the richly coloured rainforest. It looks harsh and disrupted, but one of the makeshift floodlights also illuminates that it has been severely disrupted. The entrance to a tunnel, stabilised by planks and metal, four men exiting it, looking filthy even in the dark as they pull a large crate towards one of the six, seven, eight trucks that are being loaded. It’s abuzz, everybody frantic and moving about, sealing crates, pouring foul into their vehicles that are perched in position to quickly roll down a narrow track leading North. 

The entire scene feels foreign and yet sickeningly familiar, as Louis recalls a similar view – a similar feeling – that had greeted him so long ago. It had been freezing cold, but just as wet, the smell in his nose just a sharp, as German soldiers of the HYDRA unit had marched them onto their base, past other soldiers filling transporter after transporter with weapons Louis had never seen before. Weapons that had been so far superior to theirs that their captivity had been the only logical conclusion. 

Louis has seen so much since then. Especially being around Payne and his inventions has opened his eyes to a lot of possibilities. Yet the sight of the weapons in the arms of what Louis believes to be the overseers send a chill down his spine that’s so cold, so shocking, that for the flicker of a second, Louis is back in Germany, a tired, wounded, captured soldier walking towards what he had believed to be certain death. 

They glisten in the light, shockingly so. Like polished diamonds from another world. Well, Louis thinks wryly, that’s probably what they are. But worth even more. Fucking…invaluable even. And up until this very moment, Louis had been certain that the only two items left on this earth were in SHIELDs possession. His arm. And Captain America’s shield. 

In front of them aren’t just two items. Or a few. There are fucking _truckloads_ of vibranium that Louis has no doubt has been turned into weapons just like the overseers are holding. But there is just the two of them, in the middle of the night in the middle of fucking Colombia, without back-up, and without anyone knowing where they even are. 

“We’re fucked,” Horan whispers into his ear. 

Louis doesn’t disagree.

 

 

 

***

 

 

_to be continued..._

 

 


	7. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t have a plan, by the way,” Horan continues nonplussed. “Just in case you were wondering. I can’t smell ‘im, or anything like that.”
> 
> Louis stops short. “Why would I think you can smell him?”
> 
> Horan shrugs, wry grin pulling at his lips. “Dunno. Cap could probably sniff you out amongst thousands.”
> 
> It’s ridiculous. Surely, Horan knows how ridiculous he sounds. Maybe he’s lost more blood than Louis assumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, once again, apologies that this took nearly two months. a lot has happened, and i believe the remainder of 2018 will continue to be as turbulent as the first half. doesn't have to be a bad thing, but it doesn't leave me that much time to write. 
> 
> regardless, i hammered this out in a long weekend, and it's 10k of 'finally stuff happens', so i really hope it was worth the wait. it was actually a lot of fun to write because there were a number of scenes i'd been waiting to write for a while now. 
> 
> something i also need to say before i let you guys read: the 10 chapter estimate is probably sliiightly off. i need to sit down and reshuffle my chapter plan in the next couple of days to get a clearer idea of where we're heading and how long it's gonna be to get there. 
> 
> again, thanks to dimples for beta-ing and being my guinea pig. 
> 
> if you want to chat, vent, etc., feel free to do so with and at me on my [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> now, without further ado: please enjoy!
> 
> p.s.: someone remind me to add "the slowest of slow-burns" to the tags...
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: lots of swearing, as usual. actual violence. very minor character death. description of torture. description of injuries.
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER** : the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

 

 

_“We’re fucked,” Horan whispers into his ear._

_Louis doesn’t disagree._

***

 

The longest Harry had ever been apart from Louis before he’d had to ship out – before Switzerland, before New York – had been nine days. He’d taken ill as a child, bedridden for weeks and clinging to life by a thread thinner than what his moth-eaten blankets had been made out of. His mother had been alive still, and Harry remembers her warm and comforting presence, but he also remember her haggard face; how gaunt she’d looked, not enough money for food since she’d had to pay the doctor she’d hoped would save her only child’s life. 

Harry had been highly contagious, confined to their tiny one bedroom apartment and through his feverish haze, he’d heard his mother turn his best friend away numerous times every day until Louis had simply climbed up the fire escape and, apparently not giving a single shit about his own health, had come to sit by his bedside with a tattered old book. Until this day, Harry can’t remember what Louis had read to him for days. But he will always remember his presence, the sound of his voice so close, and the way his eyes had shone so bright and clear even through the haze of his fever. 

They’ve now been apart for – what? – two days, maybe three? Harry doesn’t even know exactly, days stretching on like weeks. It feels so much longer, especially driving through a barely changing green rainforest, the steady hum of the car’s engine droning on and on in his ears. Even the light barely changes, the sky overcast with thick clouds and constant rain, and exhaustion clings to Harry’s limbs even though he’s hardly done anything but sit around and wait since this whole fucking nightmare started with Cowell getting blown into microscopic pieces. 

He and Liam stopped briefly for gas in a small town called Segovia that sat east of the road they’re still traveling on, attracting more curious glances than Harry would normally be comfortable with. Even without the star-spangled get-up, the red and gold iron suit, they stood out as obvious outsiders, as obvious tourists, which is something this place apparently hasn’t seen that much of. 

It remains at the back of Harry’s mind; this quiet voice asking him if someone they didn’t want to catch sight of them might have caught sight of them. If word was carrying over to the next town, and the next, and the one after that, until they’d turn from faceless tourists into unwelcome intruders. He’s got no doubt that they would be able to make a quick escape if push came to shove, if a situation were to escalate – but the last thing they want and need right now is to draw attention to their whereabouts; to what they’re doing. What trail they’re following. 

They’ve not talked again. There is not much to say at this point. Liam is concentrating on navigating through this Green Hell while Harry is trying not to let it drive him insane. He’s never done well with sitting back and letting others do the work; he’s never liked feeling unhelpful, useless. It’s why he’s damn Captain America in the first place. It’s why he hadn’t backed down until Dr. Erskine had taken a chance on him. It hadn’t sat well with him to stay back while others gave their lives for him. 

Even before Louis had become one of them. 

The monotony of their journey seems to have become so mind-numbing that it takes him a second longer than it normally should to realise that Liam is actively slowing down until the car is practically crawling until it eventually splutters to a sudden halt, Liam’s foot pressing down the brakes with force. 

Harry’s head jerks forward, and it effectively pulls him out of the lethargic mindset he’s been lulled into over the last hours. He blinks, right hand twitching and ready to grab for his shield before he looks out through the windshield, past the rapidly moving wipers, and realizes why Liam has stopped the car. 

There’s a fork in the road just ahead. Or rather, a narrow path, almost hidden by overgrown trees and shrubs (Harry is quietly impressed with Liam for noticing it in the first place, given the conditions and given the fact they’ve been on the road without a break for quite some time). At first, it appears to be a forgotten road, perhaps the deserted drive up to a long abandoned property nature has already reclaimed. 

Harry opens the door. All noises are immediately amplified. The rain pummels onto the hood of the Jeep like bullets. Heat washes over him, and yet he still shivers, the downpour quickly drenching his already damp shirt, making it stick to his skin uncomfortably. A few steps forward and Harry quickly understands that his first assumption could not have been more wrong. 

This road hasn’t been forgotten or deserted. It looks new, well-maintained, and far better than the dirt tracks they’ve had to use to get here. The fact that it is concealed by low-hanging branches now appears far more intentional than accidental. 

Whoever built this road did not want any attention drawn to it. And they certainly did not want anyone else to use it, if the thick metal chain strung across it a few feet in is any indication. A sign dangles from its middle, weighing it further down. Harry doesn’t speak Spanish, but he guesses it translates into something along the lines of ‘Stay the fuck out’. 

The slam of a door, boots crunching gravel here, squelching mud there. Then Liam is by his side, features knitted tight with tension. His right hand is toying with the cuff connected to his suit, more out of habit than with actual intention, Harry is sure. It is reassuring and yet also increasingly worrying that they’re both feeling so unnerved despite nothing having happened so far. They might be heading towards a dead end, chasing the ghost of an agent who might not have ever set foot into Colombia. 

“Well,” Liam eventually says, voice raised slightly to carry over the constant, maddening pitter-patter of the rain. “This definitely looks suspicious, doesn’t it?” 

Harry agrees, but yet again, that does not necessarily prove anything. “How far off are we from the location you approximated with the satellite readings?” 

“Actually,” Liam replies with a sour expression, “we’re a bit too close for my liking. I was actually thinking about stopping somewhere to try and pinpoint an exact location. Since we’re practically in the middle of it. Not sure if that’s necessary now.” 

Harry levels a concerned look at him, raises his left eyebrow. “You wanna follow it?” he asks with a nod at the road that disappears into the forest like a snake sliding back into the underbrush. 

Liam replies with a shrug, unhappy, on edge, especially since he doesn’t have his tech surrounding him. He still has JARVIS, Harry knows, but the AI does not have much to work with. From a data standpoint, this place seems to be like the Bermuda triangle. 

“I’m not going to ask ‘what’s the worst that could happen’,” Liam settles on. “Because as we have all come to know, that’s going to happen anyway. But I’d rather take whatever is going on head on than let it creep up on me.” He lets out weary sigh. “And I’m sure you’re as sick of sitting in that fucking piece of junk as I am.” 

Harry entirely agrees. They don’t know what’s waiting for them – if anything is waiting for them at all – and they don’t have to be reckless about it, but he literally needs to get off his ass. Leaving the car at the side of the road as to not attract any attention too early on and remain under the radar for as long as possible, Harry decides to have his shield ready and close to his chest as he and Liam step over the chain and make their way deeper into the rainforest, and higher up the mountain range. 

“You know what we should do?” Liam pipes up after they’ve only been walking for a couple of minutes, the narrow road so even Harry feels strangely off-balance. 

“What?” he asks, thinking it relates to the tasks ahead, so he is surprised when Liam tells him, “Go on holiday.” 

“On holiday?” he echoes. 

Liam nods, attempts to dry his face with the wet sleeve of his shirt. He isn’t successful. “Yeah. A proper, fucking holiday, you know? Preferably somewhere dry,” he adds with a chuckle. “But somewhere with lots of sun, a hammock, and cocktails served in hollowed out coconuts. With umbrellas in them.” 

“Umbrellas. Right.” Harry doesn’t expect Liam to understand that holidays are a foreign concept to him. Since he…defrosted, he’s had days when he hadn’t been on active duty (mostly involuntarily). But Harry has never gone on holiday. Back in the thirties and forties, people like Harry couldn’t afford to. The whole idea of taking time off work to go somewhere and relax wasn’t anything anybody could or would have seriously considered. You took time off work, you got fired, and if you got fired, there was no security net to catch you on the way out onto the streets. 

“I’d suggest Mexico,” Liam goes on unperturbed. “But depending on how this goes, we might want to avoid South and Central America for a while.” He hums to himself, and Harry suspects he mentally goes through a list of Payne-worthy holiday destinations. “Southern hemisphere would be good. Indian Ocean. Maybe the Seychelles. They’ve got the biggest coconuts in the world, did you know?” 

Harry did not know that. There’s not really been a time in his life where the size of coconuts was of any specific importance to him. Or coconuts in general. But he guesses the idea is a nice one. And what Liam is trying to achieve, already planning something that would undoubtedly be extraordinarily expensive to show that he cares, because he struggles showing it any other way. 

Hypothetically, a holiday is a nice idea. Realistically, though, Harry has to admit to himself that they all might not come out of this alive. And if they make it, they might not be quite as intact as a team as they were before. They’re not much of a team as it stands at the moment either. The Avengers have taken a serious hit, and some of the damage that’s been done might not easily be repaired. 

Not even including Louis in the picture…who knows if Niall and Zayn will be keen to re-join a team that hasn’t exactly abandoned them per se, but also failed to see anything was amiss. And if anything serious has happened to Zayn…Harry does not doubt that Niall might find it rather hard to forgive them should that be the case.  

“Not sure I’m holiday material, Liam,” Harry says and wipes water from his brows. 

It’s difficult to see farther than a few feet ahead, and the perpetual swooshing and rustling makes it just as hard to distinguish any other sounds but rain thundering down on them and their surroundings. It all contributes to an edge that stretching his legs, walking at a fast pace instead of just sitting around, hasn’t taken off. 

In the end, it’s not one thing, or two things added up, but the constant noise, the stress, the unfamiliar terrain, Liam’s chatter and more piled on top of one another and mashed together. They round a sharp corner and suddenly, they’re surrounded.  

No less than a dozen men, all clad in dark, murky colors, are pointing weapons at them that are too modern, too shiny, too damn reminiscent of HYDRA and for a moment, Harry feels dumbfounded, too shocked to move an inch. It’s only instinctual that his arm holding his shield twitches upward, but it makes one of the men facing him step forward. 

His weapon buzzes. It starts to glow, illuminating a weathered face, a long line of white scar tissue telling of an injury that blinded his right eye. 

“Woah, woah,” Liam calls out next to him, holding up his hands. “Don’t shoot. We’re just…tourists. _Lost_ tourists. Uh…no dispares!” 

It’s not necessary to point out that the whole tourist spiel is overwritten by Harry holding up the shield which quite clearly identifies him as Captain America. Something that he’s come to realise since being rescued from the Arctic is that regardless what people have been up to, where there live and what they’re doing – Captain America is a universally recognizable symbol. And even out here in the Colombian rainforest, these mercenaries – or whatever else they are – surely aren’t ignorant to who exactly they’ve got standing in front of them. 

“¡Manos arriba!” their opponent yells out and even though Harry doesn’t speak a word of Spanish, he gets what he’s saying. “¡Ahorita!” 

To his left, Harry sees Liam’s hand twitch towards his cuff, and it makes panic rise in his chest. They don’t know exactly what and who they’re up against, but what these men are armed with looks like it might be a match for them. And they’re outnumbered. Hopelessly. 

What they can’t be right now is hasty. They were reckless, and unprepared, and they walked right into this mess because they didn’t pay close enough attention to possible warning signs. Which means the best strategy going forward is to wait for an opportunity that might change the odds in their favor. 

Apparently, Liam doesn’t agree with that. Before Harry can utter a single word, before he has the time to urge Liam to not make any rash decisions, he moves to ignite the cuff and call his suit. 

After that, it all happens quickly.  

Liam moves, but even this minuscule gesture takes too long. He never gets to activate his suit. Harry feels the pressure of the blasters before he sees or hears anything, and then, all that echoes in his ears is his own unsteady heartbeat. Without finesse, he shoulders Liam to the side, lifts his shield, hopes to deflect whatever shots have been fired their way. 

By now, he’s intimately familiar with how that particular pressure feels against his arms; how he has to widen his stance slightly, angle his arm just so, clench his fist. Harry sees it coming, most times, and when he doesn’t, he’s always prepared either way. For a split second, he feels that pressure, and for less than half a beat, he thinks he’s been successful in thwarting the shots. But the pressure expands. It grows, pushes him back a few inches. Then a searing pain shoots up his arm. 

His vision blacks for a moment, and when Harry shakes himself out of it, eyes focusing once again, he sees it. 

There, on the wet and dirty ground, his shield lies broken into pieces.

  

***

   

Usually, Louis isn’t bothered by being outnumbered. The quantity of threats and obstacles that lie between him and the ultimate goal of a mission has never held any relevance to his effort to complete it. He has taken out more people than he wants to count or recall, on his own, and most of them were very likely more abled in combat than the South American mercenaries their still anonymous foe has contracted to do the dirty work. 

But nobody ever had weaponry like this. And apart from a brief physical encounter with Harry, Louis has never gone up against anyone who – in whatever way – also had a piece of Vibranium on their person. This isn’t just one Colombian dude carrying a rusty Glock or two. 

This is a weapons arsenal fit for a small country, guarded by men who know this rainforest, who have nothing to lose, and who are clearly led by a fucking maniac who has equipped them with a couple of guns that belong into the Sci-Fi comics he and Harry used to read on that rickety fire escape as snotty kids. 

“How the fuck are we supposed to get past them?” Horan choses this very moment to perfectly verbalize Louis’ thoughts. They have clearly spent too much time together. 

Huddled in the mud behind the broad trunk of a tree, Louis cranes his neck to get another glimpse, do another headcount. A few men rotate in and out of the mine, but there is a steady dozen guarding the loaded trucks, not counting the drivers who are undoubtedly armed as well. And there is also no doubt that this is just the tip of the iceberg. Louis can only estimate how many men are still in the tunnels that lead deep into the mountain. 

They are faced with an underground maze with no hint where they might’ve stashed Malik. 

“Quietly,” Louis answers Horan’s question. The space is illuminated, but the darkness and horrid weather conditions are working in their favour. There is enough space between the guards, enough obstacles that could hide them from view if they’re fast and near-silent. Once a group of men exits the mine to load more crates onto the trucks, they have roughly a minute before the first turn back around and head back inside. 

It’s going to be touch and go after that, and Louis does not like that at all. Having zero intel when faced with the task to find an either dead or alive individual is difficult. But they also have to make it out again and then be ready to deal with the consequences of whatever the maniac who is behind all this has cooked up for the world. SHIELD is compromised. There’s nobody out there to trust with this. 

And with this kind of weaponry circulating in the underworld, Louis’ plans to disappear without a trace and not be bothered again are in serious jeopardy. 

He has not been able to catch a break since nineteen fucking forty-two. 

“How’s the leg?” he asks Horan, because that’s something Louis will have to take into account as well should things not go smoothly. 

“Fine,” Horan hisses back, hand tightening on his readied bow. “What’s the plan once we’re past them and inside?” 

Louis shrugs. “Wing it?” 

Horan hums in response, and nods his head. “Then let’s fucking wing it.” 

Louis goes first, but Horan remains close, and with synchronised steps, ducked low and holding their breaths, they move out from behind the last line of trees. The rain works to their advantage, burying the sound of their boots squelching in the loosened ground. They reach the first crate in six seconds, crouch down again and press their back against its side. Louis steals a glance at Horan, sees how his pulse is racing in the way his carotid artery is pulsating under his wet and pale skin. 

Despite everything, Louis feels calm. This is – work. And he knows how to do this. In fact, he feels far calmer and more comfortable than he’s been in weeks. He’d never not been on edge in the tower, and Horan’s tense presence, not knowing where they were headed or what to expect… Now Louis can go step by step, focus on the mission, and he feels how his mind sharpens. 

Nothing is hazy anymore. Everything is perfectly clear. 

Another dozen steps, duck, and pause. Rapid Spanish intermingles with the rush of the rain, the rustling of the trees. Heavy clunks as more weapons are loaded onto groaning trucks, a few of them spluttering to life. The next stretch is slightly longer, curving behind a handful of barrels of gasoline. The smell is so strong it permeates even through the now all too familiar scents hanging in the constantly damp air. Louis files away their position for possible later use. Blowing up stuff as a distraction tends to work.

Horan and he get to the mine’s entrance with a few seconds to spare. The tunnel is steep and dark, but there’s an otherworldly glow at the end of it, indicating various light sources that illuminate the tunnel enough that they decided against installing any further lamps, meaning they are able to hide away in the shadows for a while longer. 

Already, it’s incrementally hotter than it is on the outside, and sweat starts to bead on Louis’ hairline, rolling down the side of his face, tickling his neck, catching on his collar. His right hand’s grip on his rifle slips less than an inch, but it still makes Louis clench his teeth in frustration before he readjusts his hold. 

Louis looks back at Horan, his features obscure in the dark, but he nods at him anyway, and motions for him to follow Louis farther down. They nearly get all the way down, and much quicker than Louis had anticipated, before a lone mercenary with a flashlight ruins their plans of finding Malik without getting noticed. Pressing tightly against rock, the man has almost moved past them, the dim glow of the flashlight flickering ahead of him, without him noticing the intruders. 

But then the cone of light touches Horan’s right shoe, and Louis knows he has to act quickly, silently, or else they’ll be discovered. 

He pounces. Left arm shooting out to wrap around the man’s shoulders and chest, Louis muffles any noise that could escape him by instantly covering his mouth and nose and pressing down hard. This is not the first time he’s had to do this, and it probably won’t be the last. It is way too easy, and perhaps that should be jarring, just as much as the fact that nothing in Louis stirs as he pulls the man back into the shadows with him. Fortunately, Horan can think on his feet, and catches the flashlight before it noisily hits the ground, switches it off before its glimmer attracts any attention. 

It's not long until he stops twitching in Louis’ arms. It’s never long. The prosthetic does not give anyone an inch while crushing their windpipe. The body stills, gets heavy, and as much as Louis would like to just drop it, they can’t just leave a corpse lying here, so he suppresses a groan and throws it over his shoulders. They don’t have much time, but there’s bound to be somewhere they can dump this guy. 

Horan utters a curse behind him as they steer clear of any light. They lost some vital seconds, and soon, the men should start to go back to retrieve more, so their steps are faster than before, and Horan’s limp is clearly audible now. But there’s nothing either of them can do about that right now. It’s important to keep moving, to not stay still, especially as the literal light at the end of the tunnel draws nearer and nearer.

 

And here’s the thing. Louis has been alive for far longer than he should be, and in this time, he’s seen more things than regular people see in their lifetimes, all of them gruesome and cruel and far worse than most would dare to imagine. He has stepped foot inside the most notorious and remote Gulags of the former Soviet Union. He has seen mass graves in Asia and child soldiers in Central Africa and KGB torture chambers in Siberia. And even though Louis can’t say he can truly appreciate it, he has also seen endless mountain ranges and waterfalls as tall as skyscrapers. He has seen frozen and fiery deserts, vast oceans and infinite skies opening up above him. 

There is not much that actually makes him pause. But this does, even if just for a brief moment. 

The tunnel just – stops. And Louis doesn’t know how to describe the space that’s opening up  to their feet other than…hollowed out. It’s as if the entire mountain has been hollowed out, as if they’d stepped into the crater of an active volcano someone put a lid on. And all around and down below there’s – 

“Fucking hell,” Horan breathes, features illuminates by the blue glow coming from a myriad of forges where Vibranium is still being melted down and funnelled into moulds. They may be loading the trucks, but it seems like they’re far from being done. And that does not bode well for anyone. Although Louis cannot say he has it in him to worry about anything but the most imminent obstacles right now. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Horan goes on, confounded, “is going on here?” 

Of course, Horan knows perfectly well what is going on in front of them. Louis is sure what Horan is referring to – rather – is how the hell it is possible that a Vibranium mine of this damn size has been created and utilised in Colombia without anyone doing one fucking thing about it, because this – 

This needs resources. This wasn’t just created in a few weeks, or even months. This must have been going on for far longer. And either The American is Liam fucking Payne or…or the guy has some decent sponsorship. 

Louis does not want to dwell on the first thought that pops into his mind when he considers the hard facts. He will have time to do that later, but first, he needs to dump the body. Then they need to figure out how the hell they are going to find Malik in this place, because despite not ever believing that this was going to be easy – neither he nor Horan thought it was going to be quite this hard. 

There are forges with liquified Vibranium that look like blue lava in between steel towers and cranes that are connected by narrow planks that serve as bridges. Platforms illuminated by floodlights, chains dangling from the side and more tunnels than Louis can count drilled into solid rock. 

“We need to move,” he says with urgency. There in a wide open space now, and just because nobody has attacked them yet does not mean they’ve not been spotted. This mine isn’t exactly crawling with men, but just looking at its size tells Louis enough to understand that one would need a lot of manpower to operate it. 

They don’t have the dark of the night to hide in anymore, but there is, next to the makeshift stairs that remind Louis of their old fire escape in Brooklyn, a narrow path that’s been carved out and appears mostly unused now that they do have stairs. It’s steep, and goes past one of the towers, meaning a section of it lies in its shadow, making it their best bet to pause and recalibrate for a few minutes. It won’t be long until someone realizes they’ve lost one of theirs. 

Louis leads the way. Horan follows on feet that are less steady than what they should be, especially considering they should both be at their physical best to stand the slightest chance of making it out of this alive. 

He drops the man’s lifeless body as soon as they’re out of plain sight and lets out a long breath. Horan doesn’t exactly collapse next to him, but the way he hits the wall and slides down with his legs outstretched cannot be described as graceful. Hardly any time has passed since they slipped past the mercenaries outside, but the last couple of days have undoubtedly taken their toll on Horan’s weakened body. 

Louis decides to give him a minute and bends down to retrieve the dead man’s weapon. Even without light, he can tell that it’s strangely reminiscent of his arm, if only for the way it gleams even in the dark. The blaster isn’t heavy, but a quick press of his metal fingers tells him that it’s solid enough to resist a blow from his prosthetic. It’s worrisome, but something Louis will just have to deal with. At least they have managed to get their hand on one of the weapons. It might cancel out the disadvantage of Horan’s less than prime condition. 

He turns around. Horan is leaning back. His eyes are closed, nostrils flaring as he breaths in the damp, too warm and thin air.

“Remind me never to sneak up on you,” he pipes up out of the blue, without moving an inch, without blinking open his eyes. His left hand is pressed against the injured part of his leg. “You’re a bloody machine, you know that?” 

It should leave Louis unaffected. Technically, Horan is partially correct. And yet his words still leave a sour taste in Louis’ mouth, even though Horan sounds impressed and apparently does not mean it as an insult. But most days, Louis struggles to remember his humanity. He doesn’t like being reminded of that. 

“I don’t have a plan, by the way,” Horan continues nonplussed. “Just in case you were wondering. I can’t smell ‘im, or anything like that.” 

Louis stops short. “Why would I think you can smell him?” 

Horan shrugs, wry grin pulling at his lips. “Dunno. Cap could probably sniff you out amongst thousands.” 

It’s ridiculous. Surely, Horan knows how ridiculous he sounds. Maybe he’s lost more blood than Louis assumed. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks. 

Horan opens his right eye. “What?” 

Louis almost grinds his teeth. It’s a close call. “You always bring him up. You always talk about what he’d do for me. You talk up a relationship that doesn’t exist anymore for – what reason, exactly?” 

For a long, stretched out moment, Horan presses his lips together and says nothing, and all Louis can hear are distant footsteps, the rattling of chains as they pull heavy cargo and the humming of various machines and engines that keep this hellhole going. 

“You know what?” Horan says eventually. “It’s – weirdly compelling. He’s trying so hard to hold onto a past you are very desperate to bury. And neither of you is willing to accept that they might be a middle ground.” 

It’s non-sensical. So much so that Louis doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but he finds himself unable to avert his eyes, gaze locked with Horan’s. His prosthetic whirrs as he moves his fingers, clenches them into a fist. But he doesn’t move. 

“Maybe,” Horan adds with a contemplative smile, “I just like a happy ending.” 

Louis snorts before he can help himself. “Right,” he responds, just strong enough to refrain from adding a roll of his eyes. “Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own happy ending. Because it ain’t looking good, pal.” 

Horan’s smile gains an edge. He blinks once, twice, then he pushes his hands to the ground and heaves his body up, keeping his weight one-sided, imbalanced. 

“I’m working on it,” he says and lets his gaze wander around. “So,” Horan settles on after a beat, “if you were a megalomaniac hiding a Vibranium mine in the Colombian jungle…where would you stash a SHIELD agent who could very well ruin your evil plans?” 

“I wouldn’t stash him anywhere,” Louis replies flatly. “Because I would kill him off right away.” 

Horan lets it roll off of his shoulders with an annoyed expression. He steps up next to Louis. “You’re dead inside, I get it. But how about you stop being a smart-arse for a minute and use that super-asset brain of yours to figure out a strategy.” 

Louis feels his jaw clench and he looks at Horan’s profile, the blue glow that is a reminder that there’s a threat looming that will draw even longer shadows than the one’s its drawing on his face. 

“Fine,” he gripes, pushing away his ego that tells him quite firmly that logically, Malik should have been disposed of right away. If he were to hold a personal grudge against Malik, he would weaken him, he would break him, and he’d put him somewhere where he would constantly be reminded that he _lost_. “If the American still has him captive, he keeps him close. Because he wants to keep gloating.” 

“So you think the American is right here?” 

Louis raises a brow. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to relinquish control of anything,” he says. “Pretty sure he’s here somewhere, overlooking everything.” 

Horan hums, disappears into his own head for a bit, looking at what’s in front of them. Then he suddenly nudges Louis with his elbow. “Overlooking everything, huh?” and he nods toward the opposite side of the crater. Up and across, there is a platform larger than the rest, partially carved into the rock. On it does not stand equipment, or barrels, or crates full of armour, but what appears to be a large shack, made from wood and metal. A set of makeshift windows, dark, are in perfect position to provide an excellent outlook over everything happening in the mine. 

“The eagle’s nest, _pal_ ,” Horan says. 

Louis doesn’t say that it all appears too easy. 

 

 

He seriously starts to consider the possibility of a trap once they leave their hiding place in search for Malik. The mine isn’t deserted, far from it actually. There are a few dozen men, monitoring automated processes, operating machinery, completing menial tasks with stony, unchanged expressions on their weathered faces. But they are focused on that and only that, untrained eyes and ears not able to pick up on him and Horan, and it is far too easy to slip past them unnoticed. 

Something that nobody has seemed to notice either is that one of them has gone missing. That, or – and it’s a thought far more chilling – it is commonplace for people to disappear in this place. Louis is suddenly reminded of what the man in Puerto Boyacá had told them; that whoever left for this place did not come back. It makes him wonder how many lie dead and forgotten in the dark, casualties of an endeavour that is bound to make some people very rich and powerful, but not them. 

It’s not what Louis would call a comforting thought. Still, it is strangely satisfactory to yet again receive confirmation that, in spite of plenty of claims to the contrary, things haven’t changed much. Footsoldiers die in the trenches while a few men move them around like pieces in a game of checkers. Whether it’s France, or Vietnam, or middle-of-nowhere Colombia. 

Which makes it even stranger that there is still no trace of the man the mercenaries call the American. And apart from Louis’ suspicions that he is former SHIELD, they don’t have much to go on. It doesn’t sit right with him, this elusive new foe who seems to have risen out of the dust overnight and built himself an empire in a breath’s time. Because that’s what this is. That’s what this entails. 

And Louis isn’t keen to fall under anyone’s rule again. He has to know who they’re dealing with. 

He falls back, lets Horan take the lead for a while. It allows him to study this strange place in more detail, even as they keep their heads low and move in the shadows.  Louis doesn’t know a fucking thing about mining, and he doesn’t know much about vibranium either, but he’s been around long enough to understand that it can’t just be melted down with a bit of heat. And this damn blue glow everywhere – well. He’s knows a lot about that. 

The powers the Red Skull had managed to harness were otherworldly. Most likely otherworldly enough to even bend vibranium at will. Louis had been left with the impression that this power source had been lost, disappearing in the Arctic Sea alongside Captain America. But it seems that not just the latter was essentially resurrected. 

“Say,” he decides to address Horan as they’re huddling behind metal pillars that are stabilizing one of the many cranes, “when Payne fished the Red Skull’s plane, and by extension Harry, out of the ice – did he happen to also stumble over a neat little device that is the key to unimaginable power?” 

Horan’s brows furrow in confusion. “You mean the Tesseract?” 

So that’s what it’s called, Louis thinks, not that it matters much. “I guess I do,” he says. “It was on the plane when Harry crashed it, wasn’t it?” 

Horan pauses, just a beat too long. “How do you know that?” 

“Was it meant to be a secret?” he asks, although he figures it was, since nobody really talks about that incident. Louis can discern a number of reasons why that would be the case, why Harry won’t share the story of what was supposed to be a martyr’s death – a clandestine suicide. Shame is undoubtedly one of them. So is Harry’s ridiculous notion that Louis is fragile and should not be burdened. 

Fortunately for Louis, Payne has a tendency to overshare and let his mouth run loose once he lacks sleep and has too much to drink. He doubts Payne even remembers his ramblings and what he’s let slip in Louis’ presence. 

“SHIELD took care of it,” Horan eventually settles on, but Louis can see the cogs moving in his head. 

“Oh, SHIELD took care of it, all right,” he retorts and pointedly lets his eyes wander over the forges and furnaces that are decidedly not powered by fire. “Allow me to give you some advice, Neil. If we – against all odds – do manage to rescue you boyfriend…maybe don’t fly him back to SHIELD right away.” 

He says it, and gets up, walks through the blue glow and closer to where they assume the American to have set up camp. 

“It’s Niall,” Horan hisses as he scrambles up and darts after him, catching up in just two seconds. He knocks his shoulder against Louis’. 

“I know.”

 

 

Something is definitely not right. Louis is sure about that no more than fifteen minutes later. There is nobody guarding what appears to be the center of command, and Louis and Horan can ascend the creaky flight of winding stairs leading up to the large platform without being seen, without being stopped. 

Up on the platform is a shack that looks surprisingly sturdy and solid, and it’s surrounded by a few barrels and crates, all apparently locked but also not guarded. The shack itself has blacked out, makeshift windows but looks inconspicuous apart from that, like it could stand anywhere else and not be out of place. In fact, if placed in the backyard of one the larger brownstones in Brooklyn, it might even pass as a very fancy garden shed. 

But even garden sheds are locked. This doesn’t appear to be. Louis steps up to the door, breathing flat, and listens. There’s no sound coming from the inside. It appears strangely deserted, but Louis still feels a slight trepidation before deciding to bit the bullet and open it. Behind him, he can hear Horan readying an arrow. 

He needn’t have bothered. The inside of the shack is dark, except for the little bit of light now pooling on the ground through the open door. Dust swirls around as Louis steps inside. A spartan cot is on the far left of the single room, flanked by two more crates on either side. Apart from that, long workbenches line the walls, covered by what seem to be blueprints. Maps are plastered to the walls, words at sharp angle scribbled all over them. 

One map is of Colombia, one of Central America and the Caribbean Sea. Routes are marked on all of them. Louis assumes them to be distribution channels, and they all start from this very spot. Apparently, the American plans to send his cargo down the Magdalena River and towards the seaport of Barranquilla. After that, it won’t take long for the goods to reach international waters and the welcoming arms of the dodgy figures who probably spent billions to purchase them. 

Judging by the scenes outside, they’re pretty much ready for their first shipment. 

They need to keep looking for Malik, Horan’s nervous energy starting to wash over him as well, but Louis still decides to risk a quick look at the blueprints. 

“Louis, we don’t have time for this,” Horan urges immediately. “We need to find Zayn.” 

Louis doesn’t turn to face him, focused on a detailed setup of the mine and it’s various tunnels. “And if we do find him and then get blown to pieces, because someone refused to take five seconds to look at a fucking map, it’d all be for nothing.” His eyes narrow as he double-checks that he has read everything correctly. Louis isn’t grateful for many things HYDRA did to him, but the photographic memory has been rather useful. “So please, let me do my fucking job and get everyone out of here in one piece.” 

He looks over everything once more to be sure, but Louis is certain he has memorized the most important details. Route and size of shipments to calculate their speed of travel, an approximate time when they’re going to reach Barranquilla and how it might take to reach the agreed position where the buyers are waiting. The money is surely already on its way to Panama or the bloody Caymans. 

Louis sighs internally. It’ll give him something to do before retirement at least. There won’t be a second HYDRA on his watch. 

He turns and catches Horan’s impatient glare. “There’s a second exit,” he tells him and watches his eyes widen, soften. “The tunnel we used was built after, probably because they needed to relieve the pressure building in here.” Louis walks past him and back out onto the platform. If they had more time, he’d crack a couple of locks and take a look inside those crates, perhaps relieve these bastards of a few more blasters. 

But they’ll have to make do with what they have, and what they know. At least it’s already distinctly more than just a few minutes ago, even if the identity of the American still remains a mystery. Right now, Louis figures he wouldn’t even be surprised if it were Director Cowell, risen from the dead. 

“I don’t care about a second exit,” Horan gripes, following after him. “I’m not going anywhere without –” 

“Your boyfriend, I know,” Louis cuts him off with a roll of his eyes, already on the staircase. “According to the maps, there’s an abandoned settlement on the other side. I guess that’s where they’ve set up camp. So if Malik is still alive, and they’re keeping him somewhere, I’d say it’s there, where they can keep an eye on him.” 

Looking over his shoulder, he adds, “and you’d do well to stop doubting my decisions. Wouldn’t take me long to hijack on of their trucks, disappear and leave you to your own devices. I’m doing this to repay my debt to both you and him. But do not fucking push me, or I’ll forget why I give a damn.”

 

  

If they’ve been left alone until now, it’s because – as Louis now understands – most of the American’s crew has gathered around a few campfire scattered between the ruins of what was once, presumably, a rebels’ settlement during the civil unrests of the past century. A midnight rest before resuming their work, Louis guesses, as he observes the men talk quietly amongst themselves, holding cups in their hardened hands. 

A few piles of old stones that once made up more huts are spread out across the site, and there are eleven buildings that, although damaged, are still recognizable and seemingly in use. Roofs and walls have been repaired with wood and metal, and along the edges, a couple of trees have evidently been trimmed back. 

There are too many of them, and not enough places to hide, and if Malik is kept in one of the buildings, the chances of being seen are extraordinarily high. But at least it’s stopped fucking raining. 

“How idyllic,” Horan comments dryly before glancing at Louis out of the corner of his eyes. He is disconcertingly pale, but Louis doesn’t believe commenting on that will do them any good right now. “If you were to hazard a guess,” he continues, letting his gaze wander over the makeshift campsite again, “how many d’you reckon we could take out before they’d start shooting back?” 

“Hate to ruin your fun,” Louis replies, “but unfortunately, not enough.” 

He does another headcount, scans the buildings and how they’re arranged, how the fires are positioned. Strategically, it seems unlikely that Malik, if alive, would be kept anywhere but in one of the two buildings that sit at the very center of this small settlement. He nods his head at them, silently alerting Horan to his theory. Horan’s brow furrows at it. 

“Can we get past them?” 

He means the group of men not directly in their path, but close enough that it might become a problem. 

Louis sighs. “Only if they’re drinking rum and not coffee.” He mulls over a few strategies in his head, goes back to briefly studying the men and their body language, the expressions on their faces, the heaviness of their eyes. “You got any tranquilizing arrows in that magical quiver of yours?” 

Horan turns to him with a sly smile. “My dear, do you even have to ask?”

  

 

The men stand no chance. Louis and Horan are excellent shots, and they never miss. And thanks to Payne’s ingenuity, what they actually fire are microscopic darts that, according to Horan, will dissolve a second after hitting their target, causing the tranquilizer to slowly ooze into the puncture wound. It looks like they simply nod off, heads getting heavy before finally dipping forward, slouching in their seats. 

They don’t put everyone to sleep. Just the ones who would have had too good a view of them trying to slip past. Which they’re fortunately able to do without any more delays. And even before they push open the door and step inside, Louis just suddenly knows that this won’t be another dead end. His gut tells him that they’ll find Malik inside, and that it won’t be a pretty sight. Part of Louis wants to be wrong. 

But he isn’t. 

He opens the door for Horan, and both of them slip inside, shutting it quietly to not alert anyone of their presence. It’s dark, but the fires outside send enough light through the windows to show the grotesque image of Malik’s limp body chained to the opposite wall. 

“Zayn,” Horan breathes, and is by his side in a second, knees hitting the ground. He frames Malik’s face with trembling hands. Malik’s eyes are, though open, unseeing, and he seems more dead than alive. 

Louis takes two more steps inside, startled at the chill that abruptly rolls down his spine when he considers who Malik is, and how fucking determined the person is that has done this to him. Because – fucking hell. Louis has probably looked worse, but he’s also got supernatural healing abilities. Malik, on the other hand, must have been in agony for weeks. 

His clothes are mostly intact, but they’re tightness highlight how gaunt Malik looks, not much more than skin and bones and bruised flesh. The chains hold his arms, his upper body, but dark coloring around his neck indicates that he might have had one around his throat at some point as well. He’s pasty and sweaty, signs of a heavy fever or infection, and his blue-tinged lips are chapped, some dried blood at their corners. 

Malik’s left arm is at an odd angle, probably dislocated or worse, broken. His hands and fingers have almost blackened, evidence that nearly every damn bone in them has been lifted out of their sockets. Classic torturing techniques. But it is particularly gruesome considering there’s probably no information they would have needed from him. Just torture for the sake of torture. Fucking hell, Louis thinks, maybe this is personal after all. 

Malik’s chest rises and falls irregularly, shallowly. It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. 

“Zayn,” Horan keeps rambling, touching at his face, his neck, feeling his pulse, panicking, falling apart in a way Louis had predicted he might. “Zayn. Look at me, babe. Just look at me, please!” 

“Be quiet,” Louis steps forward and shushes him. “You can be grateful he’s still alive. But he’s out of it. And we need to get out of here.” 

“How?” Horan hisses, not letting go of his lover but turning to glare at Louis. “He’s not conscious. You want to carry him past the bloody mercenaries and back to our fucking boat?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis bites back and bridges the last bit of distance, crouching down and assessing the chains. They don’t look too sturdy, and they don’t need to be considering how weak Malik is. Louis knows he can dismantle them, but it probably won’t be very quiet. “There’s got to be transportation around. But we have to be quick. And you will have to carry him until we reach it because this,” he says, gesturing at the chains, “is probably going to draw some attention. And I need both arms, but especially the left, to hold them off.” 

Pressing his lips together, Horan nods, and Louis is just about to reach out and grab the chains when Malik suddenly twitches and gets gripped by a coughing fit. Louis curses under his breath, before helping Horan to steady Malik’s shaking form. 

“Breathe, babe,” Horan keeps muttering, again and again, sickeningly sweet. “I’m here now. I’m sorry it took so long. But I’m here now.” Wiping sweaty strands of hair off of Malik’s forehead, Horan attempts a reassuring smile, but his eyes are watery, on the brink of flowing over. 

It takes a long while for Malik’s breathing to return to a semi-normal state, eyes fluttering heavily and gaze still unfocused and hazy but not as absent as before. When he finally returns Horan’s look, Louis can’t tell whether he knows he’s really there, or if Malik believes he is hallucinating. But a moment later, when Malik speaks with a quiet, weak, but steady voice, Louis understands that they might have nearly destroyed his body, but Malik’s mind is – impressively – still perfectly intact. 

“Niall, no,” he croaks, shakes his head but a second later, his face contorts in pain. Malik composes himself quickly. “You need to leave. Forget about me, and leave.” 

“What are you talking about, Zayn? You’re coming with us.” 

“No, no,” Malik repeats, “just go. I didn’t – I had no idea.” 

Horan reaches out once more, touches Malik’s face like he is the most precious thing and seems to search it for clues. “What do you mean?” 

“The Director,” Malik breathes, “Cowell.” 

“Cowell’s dead,” Louis says and finds Malik’s bloodshot eyes on him a beat later. 

“What? When?” 

“Couple days,” he replies swiftly, feeling on edge. They’ve already lingered for too long. They’re pressed for time anyway and there’s none of it to lose. “Someone planted a bomb in his office.” The rest, he assumes, is pretty self-explanatory. 

For some reason, Malik doesn’t seem too surprised, but nevertheless he stills, and Louis decides they’ve waited long enough already. They all have time for tearful reunions and declarations of eternal love once they’re as far away from this mine as possible. 

The stone is brittle, so it’s not hard to rip the chains from the walls, but like predicted, it’s not exactly quiet. Under Malik’s protest, they get up, and Horan gathers him in his arms. When they leave the hut, they’re not met by mercenaries holding blasters, to Louis’ surprise, but he can hear commotion coming from the other side of the camp. 

“Change of plans,” he says to Horan, turns, and unceremoniously grabs Malik from him. “Move. Into the forest. We’ll move away, lose them in the underbrush, then circle back.” 

Thankfully, Horan listens and doesn’t hesitate. Louis swings Malik over his shoulders and follows, leaving the settlement behind in favour of this endless forest he had been so happy to see the end of less than an hour ago. Now, Louis is almost relieved when darkness engulfs them, trees obscuring them and muffling the sounds of their surprisingly successful escape. Who would have fucking thought? 

He’s pretty sure Malik passes out a few minutes into their impromptu trek, which is a good thing, because even though he’s got to be slightly more comfortable than when chained to a wall, his battered body will have to go through some more strenuous hours, perhaps even days, before it will finally get rest. Not being conscious for that might be just short of a blessing. 

Horan walks ahead with a fast pace, but he keeps throwing looks over his shoulder, as if to check that Louis has not dumped his boyfriend somewhere on purpose or accident. At least he doesn’t slow down, and he seems to have taken Louis’ order to heart, leading them deep into the forest before tilting their course to the left to do something that is, on most accounts, an absolute gamble. 

Louis is counting on everything on the scale to be slightly tipped towards rather than against them. He’s counting on sheer luck, and there aren’t many things he hates as much as having to rely on luck. Gritting his teeth, Louis adjusts the grip he has on Malik and keeps going. 

It takes them approximately forty minutes to circle back towards the settlement and approach it from the other side, ducked low behind the thinning line of trees. Louis can see the glow of the fires, but it’s quiet. A little bit too quiet considering their prisoner has escaped, and they must have noticed. It’s impossible that they didn’t. It’s impossible that they didn’t care. And Louis finds it incomprehensible that their camp isn’t abuzz. Unless – 

Unless it suddenly simply doesn’t matter what happens to Malik. Unless there has been a significant shift in the narrative that makes Malik’s part in this exponentially less important. And Louis might have an inkling what that sudden change of heart was triggered by. 

But he’ll deal with that later. First, they need to get out of here. 

There are a handful of old Jeeps right on the edge of the site. They don’t look like they’re functional, but Louis doubts they’re being kept here for decorative purposes . 

Louis lowers Malik, who seems to be coming to, to the ground, nudges Horan with his elbow. “See them?” he asks, pointing at the vehicles. “Pick one, loosen the handbrake, and just let it roll. When I give the signal, you turn it on, and hit the gas, alright?” 

Horan looks like he wants to interject, maybe ask another question, but Malik groans quietly, clearly in pain, and he thinks better of it. With a nod, he secures his bow and moves without a sound. It’s no surprise than Horan can pick a car’s look rather expertly. Just as Louis told him, he loosens the handbrake, but the terrain is still steep, and so is the track leading away from this hellhole, so Louis does not have any room for error. Not that he needs it. 

The Jeep starts rolling. Horan climbs in, steers it towards them, and Louis utters a quick apology to Malik before he throws him over his shoulder. Then he leaves his position, remains slightly crouched and in the shadows until he can reach out and grab the door handle of the passing car. All of it only takes a matter of seconds. He throws Malik onto the backseat, jumps in as well, and slams the door shut. 

“Go!” 

Horan grabs the wires he has already put in place, presses them together, once, twice, then the car splutters to life. He presses down the gas pedal, and the Jeep lurches ahead. Louis manages to grab the headrest of the seat in front of him to stop his own body to be thrown around as the wheels skitter on the uneven road and they shoot forward so rapidly he’s worried, for just a moment, that the car is going to flip. It doesn’t, but Louis gets pressed against the door when Horan doesn’t let off the accelerator when they go around a sharp bend in the road. 

“Maybe don’t get us killed now,” he grits out and leans back, steals a glance at Malik who’s grimacing as he tries to sit up. “Maybe stay in the horizontal for now,” he suggests. “How many ribs did they break?” 

“Lost count,” Malik wheezes, but follows Louis’ suggestion and flops back down. “You said Cowell is dead.” 

Louis is taken aback that that’s what Malik is keen to talk about now. “He is. You didn’t seem surprised.” Another corner, and Louis takes a mental note to never get into a car with Horan ever again. “I take it you know who had him killed. And why.” 

Even a curt nod puts a strain on Malik. Louis can imagine how much it must hurt to speak, how difficult it has to be to just stay conscious for a little while longer. But Malik has always been extraordinary. Even more so because he has the patience to deal with Horan when Louis is seconds away from strangling after only a handful of days. 

Louis strains his ears to hear Malik’s quiet voice, but it is completely drowned out by the sudden screech of Horan stepping onto the brakes. They all lurch forward, Malik with a scream as his body lands heavily on his injured shoulder.

Louis curses under his breath. “What the hell, Horan? Why did you –” 

Then he sees Horan’s face, eyes wide with the kind of shock Louis has not seen in them since he shot Malik in front of him to fool Winston. Which is confusing, since Malik is harmed but alive in the car with them, and at first glance, the road ahead, scarcely illuminated by the Jeep’s headlights, appears entirely deserted. 

“Niall,” Malik croaks, “what’s wrong?” 

When Horan doesn’t even turn to look at him, Louis becomes worried. Horan opens the driver’s door and gets out, and Louis is quick to follow. It’s still not raining like it has all these days, but there’s a soft drizzle falling from the sky now. Everything is moving, blurred. He steps around the car, eyes on Horan who is looking ahead at the path in front of them. Louis is just about to ask what the hell has gotten into him, when he follows Horan’s gaze and sees it too. 

Harry’s shield is lying in the dirt. It’s broken into pieces. 

And it suddenly becomes clear why nobody had cared enough to stop them. They’ve got a bigger fish in their net. 

“Fuck,” Horan echoes his thoughts. “Fucking _fuck_! What the hell happened? What are we going to do?” 

Louis doesn’t know what happened. He can only assume that Harry either followed them, or that a whole lot of shit has gone down since he and Horan left Manhattan. It’s likely both. And it’s a chilling proof that they’re dealing with a threat far worse than they could’ve anticipated. Captain America’s shield has been able to withstand absolutely everything. Up until now. 

A suicide mission. Louis fucking knew it. 

As for what they’re going to do… 

Malik needs urgent medical care. They can’t drag him back into another rescue mission he’s not likely to survive. But they can’t exactly leave him here either.  There really is only one thing to do if Louis does not want to spend the rest of his days shouldering even more guilt for something he didn’t do than for the things he did. 

He sighs heavily, rubs a hand over his damp face, then puts it on his hip. Turning to Horan, he says, “here’s what we’re going to do: You take Malik and get the hell out of here, to a doctor, or a hospital. And I’m going to go back and save Harry’s ass like I’ve done since nineteen twenty-seven.” 

It’s the last thing they can ask him for. The last thing he needs to give before he can turn his back on the Avengers without feeling like he owes them anything. 

“Louis,” Horan says hesitantly. “Are you sure?” 

He is, but probably not for the reasons Horan believes. “Don’t have another option, do we?” 

Plus, he’s armed, he knows the setup of the camp and the mine, and what routes they might take. He’s much better prepared going in this time. 

Horan looks like he wants to protest, but he also knows that there’s no other way. And if his loyalty is outweighed by anything, it’s the love he has for Malik. It’s sickening, really. 

“Just make sure you two get out of this alive, alright?” he tells Horan. “I don’t like dying in vain.” 

Louis moves to go, but is stopped by Malik, who has somehow dragged himself out of the Jeep and leans heavily against it, face drawn tight with pain, but his gaze firm and unwavering. He really is quite a remarkable human being. Another place, another time, Louis thinks they could have been great friends. 

“Be careful,” Malik says. “The man who is behind this…he’s – he’s got nothing to lose.” 

Louis gives him a wry smile. “Great. Neither have I.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

_to be continued..._  

 

 

 

 


	8. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey Lou,” Harry has the fucking nerve to croak with a smile. To be fair to him, he doesn’t look like he’s in pain, and his face appears pale, but generally normal. The only giveaway that he’s been stabbed is actually the hilt of the damn knife sticking out of his side._
> 
> _“Shut up,” he snaps, trying to keep the maelstrom of emotions that swirl inside him at bay, predominantly panic and anger. “I let you out of my sight for five fucking minutes and you go and get yourself stabbed!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know. i suck. this chapter would've been done way sooner had i not realised that there was a bit of a plot error, so i deleted it and started over, and i am still not entirely happy with the ending, but i guess it is what it is. wasn't very easy to write either because there is a LOT going and a lot of questions that will finally be answered, so i hope you'll enjoy it, and that it's worth the wait. as always, kudos to dimples for beta'ing this baby and for providing moral and brainstorming support when i so desperately needed it. i would also like to thank the shit weather this past weekend that forced me to stay inside and get shit done. and the pupper for keeping my feet warm.
> 
> do feel free to leave feedback or yell at me on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/) about all the unnecessary angst i put into this chapter. you're welcome. 
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: lots of swearing, as usual. actual violence, most of it graphic. references to nazis and ww2. background character death. 
> 
> for general warnings, please refer to the tags.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER** : the marvel universe is not mine, which sucks because being stan lee would be pretty awesome. i do also not hold any ownership over the people featuring in this fic, fictional or non-fictional. they belong to marvel or themselves.

 

***

 

_1944_

 

_They have a spotter. To be fair, it’s not a very good one, since Louis has had the barrel of his rifle pointed at him for a little over two hours without him noticing it. The other members of the Howling Commandoes are scouting the immediate surroundings of the HYDRA base they plan on destroying, looking for weak spots, noting down the number of armed guards. They all have their set roles by now; have done this successfully so many times that it has become routine, that everyone knows what to do and how to do it._

_And Louis is the team’_ _s best sniper_ _– by quite a lot. And here, alone and surrounded by nothing but trees and eerie silence, he can quietly admit to himself that he enjoys this part of their mission, the rare moments he has to himself these days. Even though he loves the guys like they’re his brothers, and God knows he loves Harry so much he feels sick from time to time –_

( _Not from time to time, fucking all the time, Louis feels his insides twist painfully whenever he looks at the man he’d happily give his life for, was fucking ready to give his life for if it meant he’d be all the way across the Atlantic, safe and with an actual future ahead of him._

_Louis feels it whenever he looks at Harry, twisting, dark and ugly, because they roped him into this vicious and cruel war he is far too good for. It makes his body thrum with a rage he doesn’t even feel when he beats a Nazi into a bloody pulp, thinking about them abusing Harry’s too-good heart and selflessness. He’s never liked bullies, Louis has known that since he’d seen a small boy, small and skinny enough to be blown over by a mild Brooklyn breeze, take a swing at a kid practically twice his size for torturing a stray cat nobody else had given a shit about._

_Harry has always hated bullies, but at the same time, he has always been far too willing to see the good in everyone. Hell, ‘s the only reason Louis can think of for why Harry even befriending him in the first place, the no-good troublemaker who – as all adults all too readily would agree – would never amount to anything. And those fucking bastards, Erskine and Stark and people who’ve never had to get their hands dirty – they’d seen that, and hijacked it, and turned him into a fucking beacon –_ _)_

_Louis grits his teeth, wriggles his frozen toes in his boots and takes a deep but shallow breath in through his nose. It hasn’t been a very long summer, and fall is far colder than it should be, the smell of snow already in the air this high up in the mountains, the ground Louis is lying on hard and frozen solid. But it’s quiet, and in these moments, despite everything that’s otherwise broiling inside of him, he feels calm and centered._

_And this is something else he won’t admit to anyone but himself, especially not in front of Harry: he is really looking forward to pulling the trigger._

_From the beginning, from the moment he’d picked up a rifle and shown a natural talent for it, his superiors had never grown tired of telling him, “_ _It_ _’ll get easier, son,” referring to the burden of taking another life that haunted all the other young soldiers who’d rather been anywhere else in the world. Yet another truth is that, for Louis, it hadn’t been hard at all. And unlike all the men surrounding him, he was unequivocally sure that he was right where he was supposed to be._

_It_ _’s something Louis is still convinced of, and it is most likely the reason why he feels so bloody calm. He is meant to fight in this war. But even more than that – he is meant to die in it._

_Harry becoming part of the equation has complicated matters a little, because – and that’s something else Louis knows for sure – he is meant to survive. He is meant to return home a hero. He deserves it, and he deserves people finally seeing what Louis has seen all along._

_So Louis has to stay alive; he has to stay alive for long enough to make sure that Harry stays alive._

_It is becoming more and more difficult though, fighting side by side with someone who doesn’t want to save himself but everyone else. With someone who doesn’t understand that he is better than all of them, and they cannot afford to lose him if they want to win this war. Everyone else is disposable. Harry is not._

_Louis keeps quiet, and he keeps still, eyes focused on the German soldier standing on the outlook post by the heavy gate. He doesn’t move when he hears someone approach, by now all too familiar with every member of the team to be able to tell who is coming to join him. The last handful of feet are bridged on all fours, crouched down low and barely making a sound, which is impressive for James who, despite small rations, has managed to hold onto a small part of his originally larger belly that still makes him a bit noisier, a bit slower than the others. Unsurprisingly, he’_ _d lost_ _the most weight while they’d been in captivity, being starved by HYDRA while their scientist had poked and prodded at Louis._

_(That’s not all they did, a treacherous part of his mind reminds him, but as always, Louis ignores it.)_

_“That’s an impossible shot,” James whispers close to Louis’ ear, breath warm in the icy air, sending out small tufts that momentarily blur his vision._

_Louis shifts his gaze towards him without moving an inch, then raises his left eyebrow._

_“_ _I_ _’m just saying,”_ _is James_ _’ defensive response, and his shoulders twitch in a quick shrug. “But if one person can make it, it’s you. Bloody freak of nature,” he adds with a smirk, meaning it as a compliment, yet Louis still feels an odd pang in his chest. Perhaps James’ words ring a bit too close to home._

_“Cap is getting the bike ready, by the way. The gate doesn’t look to be enforced, and the base is small enough that we should be able to handle this quickly and by ourselves.”_

_“What are the orders?”_

_“The usual,”_ _James replies._ _“Give us cover. Cap especially. You know how he is.”_

_With that, he shuffles back, and soon his retreating steps can’t be heard anymore. Louis presses closer to the ground, checks his mark, and waits for the signal. In this case, it’s not so much a sign, but Harry’s bike roaring to life, sound echoing far and wide._

_The spotter by the gate can’t do much more than twitch before Louis shoots. The bullet enters right below his jaw, and judging by the amount of blood that instantly gushes from the wound, Louis can be sure he’s hit his aorta. The soldier keels over, and suddenly, the previously deafening silence is abuzz with movement and voices yelling orders. Another two soldiers appear by the gate, but Louis is quick to reload. He shoots once, twice, both men hitting the ground as Harry steers the bike towards the gate at full speed, Ed sitting behind him, his fiery hair a stark contrast to the monotone surroundings._

_They burst through the gate, wood shattering, splintering, the other members of the Howling Commandoes on their heels. By now, their enemies know who’s come for them, and some of them try to make a run for it, but they can’t afford to let them flee. Louis takes out another dozen before he gets to his feet and shoulders his rifle, quickly scattering down the muddy slope. He feels a little lightheaded after laying still for so long, but his body seems to need less and less time to adjust._

_When he steps through the now wide open gate, it takes less than a second for him to be attacked. Louis adjusts the grip on his rifle, and brings its rear end down hard, a satisfying crunch telling him that he broke the bastard’s nose. Bending down, he retrieves a knife and a gun, the former of which he throws across the chaotic quad where it lodges itself into the back of one Nazi eager to flee the scene._

_Up ahead, Louis can see Aiden and Tom round up a group of soldiers who have evidently surrendered, arms up and hands behind their heads, most uniforms dirty, some bloody. Most of the ruckus is coming from a collection of buildings towards the other side of the plot, so that’s where Louis heads next._

_He moves quickly but cautiously, aware that the provisional barracks on either side allow anyone who might be stupid enough to attack to have effective cover, but as Louis continues, he grows more certain that they have been abandoned, and that any soldiers who are still fighting, who are still resisting the ambush, have retreated into the ruins of what he know recognizes to be a church that they’ve built this base around._

_Inside, what seems to be a million shreds of paper fly through the air. It smells of gunpowder and kerosene. People are yelling in German, gun shots are echoing through the ruins but the main hall is strangely empty and solemn and it makes Louis still; makes him step through the bits of paper whirling around his head that, if he squints, almost look like snow._

_Most of the hall has been cleared, but a few wooden benches are still in place, some intact, some chopped up for firewood. All the windows are cracked or shattered and the altar at the end of the aisle has been stripped, leaving nothing but a cold, concrete block._

_At least they left Jesus up there, Louis thinks with a wry smile as his eyes sweep across the cross that, unlike anything else in this place, has remained mounted to the wall. Jesus is up there, and he’s lost his feet and needs a new paint job, but Louis wonders if leaving the cross intact is a strange show of respect and humanity._

_Absentmindedly, he tries to remember the last time he went to church and comes up blank, but that distraction is enough for a German soldier to sneak up on him. Just in time, Louis registers the movement out of the corner of his eye, and ducks._

_A machete comes down beside him, missing his head by just a few inches. It swooshes through the air, and hits the concrete altar with a clank. Louis’ heart jumps, he stumbles a few more steps back and turns to face the attacker. It’s a tall man with greying temples, blood already drying on his narrow, ashen face. His eyes are a piercing blue and the sneer that dominates his expression contorts a conventionally handsome face into a grimace. His uniform indicates that he is a higher-ranking official, perhaps a Colonel, but before Louis can take in more details, he draws his arm back and strikes out again._

_Louis dodges the strike and the other two that follow, coming too quick for him to do much more than move away._ _And in the process of doing that, he doesn’t see that part of the steps leading up to the altar have been blasted into dust. He goes down, manages to roll it off mostly thanks to muscle memory, and blindly grabs what he hopes to be a large chunk of wood._

_Blocking the next strike, Louis finally manages to regain solid footing and when the machete flashes in front of him again, he pushes back, lands a kick, and once he has the upper hand, it’s quick and painless._

_Or rather, it should be. Louis disarms the German Colonel and sends him to the floor with a well-placed punch to his jaw. He’s quick to lean down and grab him by the collar, drags him over the ground and up to the altar where Louis presses him to stone by his throat._

_The man’s face is still contorted and manic, his eyes are unfocused and clouded over, but for a moment, their gazes lock and the tips of Louis’_ _fingers start tingling._

_Then, the German smiles. “You think you can escape,” he hisses, accent thick and voice raw. “But they’re looking for you. And they’ll find you.”_

_Louis has his hand at his throat and he’s pressing down, and yet he still feels like he’s the one struggling to breathe. His chest feels tight and he can’t quite breath and with blood suddenly rushing in his ears, he lets his fingers encircle the man’s throat and presses down._

_The smile stays on the Colonel’s face even as his limbs starts twitching, even as his eyes roll back into his head and he gasps and gurgles and with a last-ditch effort struggles against Louis’ grip to break free. Finally, the body stills, becomes heavy, and Louis flinches back as if burned, heart in his throat._

_Fuck._

_He quickly glances around, is relieved to find they’re still alone, because –_

_Louis doesn’t know why. Is he worried that one of his friends could have witnessed him defending himself against a fucking Nazi before finishing him off, deservedly so? That they could have heard what he said? Hell…Louis doesn’t even know what that bastard meant by it. Probably just spitting out the few English words he knew._

_(Deep down, Louis knows what he meant. And he can see it all again; the white coats and face and bright lights. Burning pain, as if his whole body was set on fire, as if his blood had suddenly been turned into acid.)_

_Thankfully_ _– or not, perhaps – before his mind can linger on the words of a dead devil in the flesh, he hears his name being called and turns to see Ed running towards him._

_“_ _Ed_ _–”_

_Ed cuts him off. “I need you to come with me. But just –_ _don_ _’t freak out, okay?”_

_If he wants Louis to remain calm, it’s the wrong fucking thing to say. “Ed. What the fuck happened?”_

_Ed grimaces. Only know does Louis notice that his scarf is missing, that his hands are painted in scarlet. The heart that’s been sitting too high up his throat drops down so quickly Louis almost gags._

_“_ _It_ _’_ _s Cap,_ _” he says, effectively punching all air out of Louis’ body with only two words. “_ _He_ _’_ _s_ _– I mean, he’_ _s fine. Just_ _…he got –_ _stabbed. I guess._ _”_

_“_ _Stabbed,_ _”_ _Louis repeats._ _“Harry got stabbed?”_

_“It sounds worse than it is,” Ed tells him, but it doesn’t calm Louis down at all. “Honestly, just – just follow me.”_

_They leave the church’s main hall quickly, running down a long hallway that leads to an array of back rooms with makeshift roofs. They’re full of crates that undoubtedly hold an array of weapons that were going to be distributed to a number of units. He doesn’t doubt for a second that the guys have already doused all of it with kerosene – hence the smell that’s getting stronger and stronger – to blow it all up before they make their exit._

_But once Louis see Harry slumped against a wall, he can’t pay attention to anything else, doesn’t hear another word Ed or James say to him as he drops down to his knees._

_“Hey Lou,” Harry has the fucking nerve to croak with a smile. To be fair to him, he doesn’t look like he’s in pain, and his face appears pale, but generally normal. The only giveaway that he’s been stabbed is actually the hilt of the damn knife sticking out of his side._

_“_ _Shut up,_ _” he snaps, trying to keep the maelstrom of emotions that swirl inside him at bay, predominantly panic and anger. “I let you out of my sight for five fucking minutes and you go and get yourself stabbed!”_

_There isn’t that much blood. It’s a good sign, but it also means that the knife that has inflicted the wound is simultaneously keeping it shut, so removing it may not be in the cards. However, leaving in it could also cause an infection and they’re a few days away from their base camp and proper medical help._

_“_ _Sorry,_ _” Harry apologizes_ _._ _“I got distracted.”_

_“Clearly,” Louis shoots back, mind reeling, unsure what to do. A hand on his shoulder makes him flinch. He almost forgot that James and Ed are there as well. He doesn’t need to make this decision on his own, but this is Harry, and Louis should have been by his side instead of off on his own._

_“We need to get the knife out,” James tells him calmly, but there’s a deep line between his brows showing how worried he is. “The risk of infection is too high.”_

_Ed, already frantically digging through his backpack in search of supplies, lifts his gaze. “What if he loses too much blood?” he asks._

_Louis doesn’t fucking know what will happen if Harry loses too much blood. But he can’t walk miles and miles through a war-zone with a damn knife stuck between his ribs._

_“_ _Hey,_ _” Harry says, and then once more, more gently, directly to Louis, “Hey...d_ _on_ _’t worry. Super-fast healing, remember? I’ll be fine.”_

_There’s a lump in Louis’ throat, or maybe his heart has climbed back up, making his voice sound breathless and tight when he replies. “You better be. Because you’re not dying on my watch, you understand? Do not fucking dare.” His hand finds the hilt and wraps around it tightly, not missing the wince that Harry barely manages to suppress. He can see in his periphery vision that Ed has gauze, thread and needle at the ready._

_“Do not fucking dare to die on my watch,” Louis says again with emphasis. Their gazes lock, and Louis knows Harry inside out, like he knows himself or perhaps even better, and he knows that Harry wants to tell him that he can’t make any promises like that. He can’t promise Louis that he won’_ _t die._

_But that’s fine, Louis thinks, readying himself and gritting his teeth, tasting sharp determination that pushes all other emotions aside. Harry can’t make that promise. But Louis can; has made it many times already as they’d lain side by side in the dark and Louis had prayed to Gods he didn’t believe him._

_He pulls out the knife, and Harry gasps, but they’re quick to press down, put pressure on the wound and keep the bleeding at bay while Ed does a sloppy but decent enough job of stitching Captain America back together. While he works, Louis holds Harry’s eyes and his hand, thumb drawing steady circles on cold skin._

_Harry won’t die on his watch. Louis won’t let him._

_They get Harry to his feet eventually, and because he is a damn super-soldier, he actually manages to walk on his own as if he hadn’t been stabbed but merely scratched. Still, Louis stays close by his side, lets James, Ed and the others take care of blowing this place up, zeroing in on even the smallest possible expression of discomfort._

_He_ _’s always had tunnel-vision when it comes to Harry, and he’s always missed out on things because of that. It’s never bothered. On this particular day, in this particular place, under these particular circumstances – there is something that Louis misses. If Harry hadn’t gotten stabbed, if Louis had paid closer attention, if Ed had called his name just a few seconds later, then he might have noticed it._

_None of these things happen, so Louis doesn’t notice that the altar, previously bare but unblemished, now exhibits a fist-sized hole at the exact spot where he’d held the Colonel’s throat._

 

 

*** 

 

 

It’s been a while since Harry has felt anything more than slight discomfort at an opponent’s hands. The men pushing Liam and him ahead aren’t technically using their hands, but it hurts like hell when the one herding him along strikes out with his weapon. Harry stumbles and falls to his knees, which was most likely the point, and the throbbing at the back of his head that’s so fierce it makes black spots dance in front of his eyes is suddenly interspersed with even more excruciating pain when – on instinct – Harry tries to balance his body and puts weight on his injured arm. 

He clenches his teeth, tastes rain and dirt; ignores the worried glance Liam shoots his way when a pained groan slips out. The bones in his arm aren’t shattered like his shield, but they’re cracked. His accelerated healing has already set in, but in its early stages, when he can feel how fibres and sinews are starting to knit themselves back together – it’s a sensation so foreign and arduous that he’d sometimes rather just snap his limb in half and be done with it. 

The pain doesn’t entirely go away, but it subsides enough for Harry to slowly start taking note of what is happening around them, and where they’ve just been marched to. He’s kneeling in mud, with Liam to his left, and they’re surrounded by a dozen men clad in gear that looks far too out-of-this-world for the Colombian jungle. For a brief moment, especially with his vision still a bit hazy, these men resemble SHIELD’s own STRIKE team. Harry ignores the voice in his head telling him there might be a good reason for that and instead focuses his gaze on the scene that lies beyond them. 

Small, dirty shacks, a handful of trucks, tire tracks leading towards a makeshift road that a few yards down gets completely engulfed by the forest. A dark hollow leading into the mountains. The entrance to what has to be a vibranium mine. One that, by the looks of the men guarding it, is very much active. 

Which means they’re not just kneeling in mud. They’re also neck deep in shit. 

When the guards start muttering amongst themselves in rapid Spanish, Harry doesn’t take it as a good sign. Liam is leaning in, saying something close to Harry’s ear, but nothing registers once the men in front of them part to make way for someone new. 

In his lifetime, Harry has had a number of strange encounters. The Red Skull pulling his actual face off to reveal what was hidden underneath, an alien army from outer space raining from the sky. Just once before has he looked a dead man in the eye. And at the time, Harry wouldn’t have assumed that the experience might repeat itself. 

Of course Simon Jones isn’t dead, like his file says. Of course he’s striding up towards them with a self-satisfied smirk on his too sharp face. It really shouldn’t shock Harry at this point. 

It shouldn’t. But it does. 

Still, Harry can’t help but grit out through his clenched teeth, “Interesting place you’ve picked for your resurrection, Mr. Jones.” 

If it throws him that they know his name, Jones doesn’t show it. He comes to a halt, casually put his hands into the pockets of his cargos, lets the corner of his mouth quirk up even more. He’s not armed, at least not as far as Harry can tell, the thin jacket thrown over an equally thin, black t-shirt not hiding much, but revealing a long, jagged scar that runs all the way across his throat. 

“Isn’t it just?” he purrs demeanour equally as out of place as the blasters his supposed henchmen are brandishing. “But let me tell you, my dear Captain: you spend over a decade inside _La Modelo_ and you develop a certain…fondness for Colombia and her people.” 

The note that underlies the outward loftiness is steely. Harry doesn’t know what _La Modelo_ is, but just drawing a first conclusion from Jones’ tone and expression, not to mention that scar indicating someone very definitely tried to cut his throat, he’d guess it’s either a militant group – or a prison. How a former SHIELD agent landed there, let alone here…that isn’t something Harry is willing to hazard a guess at.  

“Guess it was fondness too that led you to the vibranium, huh?” 

Liam looks small without his suit. He looks too human, and too fragile, and Harry looks at him; wonders how he is going to get the two of them out of here alive and in one piece. He didn’t expect someone like Jones to be the one heading this operation. Jones, who just like Liam, appears very human and very fragile, but doesn’t have Liam’s suit or his intelligence. For all they know, Jones is a run-of-the-mill SHIELD agent. There shouldn’t be anything extraordinary about him. 

“Not exactly, Mr. Payne,” Jones says and sighs. “But I do remember the very moment I stumbled upon this little treasure here _very_ fondly.” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Liam says. Harry doesn’t see his scoff, but he can hear it. “And I’m also sure you’ll be all too happy to regale the tale for us, whether we want to hear it or not.” 

Jones’ smile takes on a cruel edge. He steps closer, mud squelching underneath his boots. Placing his hands on his hips, he looks down at them and Harry can’t pinpoint the emotions swimming in his dark eyes. There’s no insanity like with the Red Skull, or even a hint of Winston’s delusions of grandeur. There’s too much rapidly flickering across his face to really grasp at anything. 

Harry finds it unsettling. Like this guy isn’t just insane or hopelessly narcissistic – but downright unhinged. 

Jones doesn’t say anything for a long while. He just looks at them, unmoving, while his men shift nervously, and while water drops from the trees and the shacks that surround them. Despite the pain in his arm still clouding his mind, Harry does his best to find a few weak spots, but he comes up empty. Unless Liam can pull something out of his non-existent sleeves, he doesn’t see a way to overpower Jones and his mercenaries. And even though Jones is taking his time right now, Harry isn’t sure that they will have much of it in the end. 

“I always wondered,” Jones muses eventually, “why Cowell decided to make you his little pet project. Your special skill sets are fairly impressive, I have to admit. But you walked into this completely clueless, didn’t you? Just like Malik did.” 

Harry’s heart lurches and his spine goes rigid. “Where is he?” 

Appearing aggravatingly bored all of a sudden, Jones shrugs. “Two of your – let’s say colleagues - broke him out a mere thirty minutes ago, thinking I wouldn’t notice. Or rather, presuming I’d care.” 

He should be thinking about Zayn, about a dozen other things first, but Harry can’t but instantly zero in on two – _two_ colleagues. Niall and Louis. Niall’s got Zayn, and he has Louis with him. _Louis_ _’ here_. Was here. Not too long. Fuck, Harry groans internally. A half hour isn’t fucking long. 

“And you don’t?” Liam is quicker to follow up. He’s stalling for time while his mind is undoubtedly developing a plan, assessing their situation and multiple options. 

“It doesn’t matter either way. Not anymore,” Jones replies loftily. “I only had to keep him…detained for long enough. And now that he’s out, and you’re here – I don’t even have to come up with some silly plan to destroy the Avengers. You’ve done it all on your own. So thank you very much, Mr. Payne. Captain.” 

“You shouldn’t underestimate the three agents you allowed to waltz right back out of here,” Harry retorts. Zayn is probably injured and won’t be an asset physically, but spending so much time as Jones’ prisoner means he knows more about this operation than most. He doesn’t know if Louis is going to stick around. But Niall is surely gunning for revenge. Once Zayn is safe, Niall most likely won’t rest until he can get his hands on Jones. 

“I’m not underestimating anyone, Captain,” Jones says. “But you should realize that in the grand scale of things that will unfold from this moment on – you simply don’t matter. Because, and I say this with only the best intentions,” he adds, and crouches down so they’re eye to eye. “I hold all the cards. All of them. And you aren’t even aware what game we’re playing.” 

With that, he gives Harry a condescending pat on the cheek, black leather glove cold and clammy as it touches his skin. Harry suppresses the childish urge to slap it away, or go for it with his teeth. Jones reads his mind, judging by his expression, and he gets up with a disdainful smile. 

“You could always enlighten us,” Harry suggests, reciprocating the smile with equal aversion. 

Jones definitely realizes that Harry is trying to stall and get more information out of him. But he is counting on him being arrogant enough to want to gloat about everything he’s done. He’s not like Winston in that regard, who didn’t even have to be goaded into revealing his masterplan, so playing to Jones’ ego might not be the right strategy. But Harry guesses he can try a slightly different angle. 

“I could do that, couldn’t I?” Jones pretends to mull it over. “I could start with a sad tale about a boy who only wanted to prove himself to his military family and then his commanding officer, who turned out to be a traitor and left him to rot in prison when they both stumbled over this treasure hidden in this godforsaken country. And I could tell you about him swearing revenge and hatching a plan when that same commanding officer came crawling back to ask for help in a rather illegal and traitorous operation. Actually, I could go on and on about all the people that have wronged him and twisted his soul until he barely recognized himself anymore. And in the meantime, you two could collect information, and Mr. Payne here might even have time to connect to one of his little robots, ruining all my hard work.” 

He lets out an over-dramatic sigh. “I am quite tempted though. Mainly because it would be really fucking hilarious to watch your faces as I burst your idealistic bubble.” 

Harry glances to his left and catches Liam already looking at him. He looks confused, very worried, and Harry can only echo both of these sentiments. There are a number of question marks dangling around Jones and what he’s managed to pull off. It’s not a stretch to conclude that he was part of the group of special ops that SHIELD supplied to the US government for their covert operations in Colombia. And it also seems logical that Jones was the one who’d found the vibranium during that time. 

But what happened between then and Jones ending up as officially deceased in SHIELD’s database is anyone’s guess. Although, Zayn had guessed it. Or some of it, at least. But even he hadn’t figured it all out, or he wouldn’t have been caught by Jones and his henchmen. 

“You see,” Jones eventually goes on, “I really –” 

He doesn’t get to finish. Something whirrs so closely past Harry’s ear that he feels a gust of air, flinching away from it and a fraction of a second later, the man standing to Jones’ left collapses in a heap. 

Chaos breaks out. Normally, it would make for the ideal opportunity to escape, but the mercenaries, instead of trying to locate from where the shot was fired, lift their weapons and immediately drench the air with highly-powered blasts. Harry hunches his shoulder, tries to make himself smaller while simultaneously trying to suppress the acceleration of his pulse, because he only knows one person who could pull off a shot like that. The mercenaries are wearing uniforms that are at least partially bulletproof, the only definite weak spot a gap between collar and visor. 

A second man goes down, and then a third, and a fourth, but the noise increases, Jones’ henchmen shouting in loud and rapid Spanish. There’s commotion, undoubtedly more men starting to fill the clearing and amidst all of it, Jones remains eerily calm and quiet, so much so that Harry’s gaze zeroes in on him. Almost like he welcomes the chaos. He’s still smiling. 

And without that smile slipping off his face, he pulls a simple handgun out from underneath his jacket, and points it at Harry’s forehead. Harry doesn’t hear Liam’s gasp through all the noise, but he does understand every single word Jones is saying, even though he isn’t raising his voice whatsoever. 

“That’s enough of that, Sergeant,” Jones addresses the forest to their back. 

Harry closes his eyes, silently begging for Louis to just leave; to not give Jones any more leverage or play into his hands. He’s disappeared before and he should just do it again, especially since Harry didn’t hesitate in throwing him under the fucking bus. He needs Louis to disappear. 

“Bajen sus armas ahora, caballeros,” Jones orders his men, and Harry can only guess what it means when they lower their guns and stand down. “You too, please, Sergeant Tomlinson. You wouldn’t want your dear Captain to die like this, would you?” 

It doesn’t take long for Harry to hear footsteps he could – even in these alien surroundings – pick out of thousands. Louis treads slowly, carefully, but always with a certain swagger that’s entirely unique to him. It makes Harry’s throat go tight in an absolute inopportune moment when it dawns on him that it’s also one of the things that’s not changed about him. 

“Who says I wouldn’t?” 

It rolls down Harry’s spine like honey. Given the content of what Louis just said, Harry isn’t sure what that says about him. But he doubts there’ll ever be a time he won’t react that way to the sound of Louis’ voice. Hell, it’s not even been very long and Harry is already desperate for it. 

Harry wants to turn his head and catch a glimpse as Louis approaches, but Jones takes a few steps towards him and suddenly, the cold barrel of his gun touches Harry right between the eyes and stops him from moving an inch. 

Jones tilts his head mildly. “Oh, pardon me. This isn’t a badly thought-out rescue mission?” 

The sound of Louis reloading his rifle is all-too familiar. It also points to him not having dropped it, and not being very inclined to do so either. Harry is relieved and concerned at the same time. 

“Why would I want to rescue them? They threw me under the bus the moment they got the chance.” 

“Louis –” Harry doesn’t know what he’s going to say, so perhaps it’s a small mercy that Louis cuts him off. 

“Cry me a fucking river, Styles,” he bites and Harry can see him now, just out of the corner of his eyes and not well, but he’s here, and he’s alive and Harry – Christ, Harry doesn’t want to read too much into this, but Louis has positioned himself in the perfect position to have a clear shot at Jones. It might just be coincidence, but nothing Louis does is ever unintentional, so Harry allows himself to believe he’s right. 

Louis’ attention turns back to Jones. “They threw me under the bus, but,” he adds sharply, “you were the one driving it, weren’t you? And I’m pretty sure Cowell was all up in it as well, so…I’m still kind of weighing my options right now.” 

Harry blinks. With everything that’s happened, he almost forgot about Cowell altogether. Cowell, who Jones apparently decided to blow up and frame Louis for it. Because he’d sent Zayn to investigate and perhaps even stop him. But there’s something in the way Jones barks out a delighted laugh that makes Harry question whether that conclusion is in any way accurate. 

“Cowell was – what?” Liam pipes up and Jones shakes his head at him in bemusement. 

“Oh, Mr. Payne. Don’t tell me you haven’t put it together yet? I thought you were the smart one.” 

It’s right there. All the gaps they have been missing; all the puzzle parts that complete the picture lying on the muddy ground to their feet, but Harry can’t put them together. Between the throbbing pain in his arm, the gun to his head, the other dozens of weapons pointed at him, and Louis standing close – he can’t hold onto anything long enough to make sense of it. But he doesn’t doubt that the other shoe is about to drop. 

“Come on, Payne,” Louis says. “How do you think this whole thing got started? Who would have had the network to take care of all necessary logistics? To funnel know-how, equipment and funds to pay for all that and manpower on top of it?” He points at the mercenaries in their black uniforms, water pearling down the visors that are hiding their faces. “Who do you think sent them these outfits? They look familiar, don’t they?” 

And there it is. It’s dropping. Harry’s head starts spinning as it slowly starts to dawn on him and he remembers what Jones had mockingly told them, what had seemed a bit crazy and perhaps embellished but now washes over him and chills him to the bone. 

“Where did you meet Cowell?” Louis goes on before Harry or Liam can gather themselves, still pointing his rifle in Jones’ and Harry’s direction, unwavering. “If I had to hazard a guess I’d say Gulf War. You must’ve been – what? Twenty? First overseas mission, very ambitious, eager to follow orders.” 

The smile that continues to stay on Jones’ face is beginning to look eerie and unnatural, like a mask he’s put on to hide everything boiling underneath a too-calm surface. Around them, an equally eerie calmness sets in, like this rainforest is holding its breath before it unleashes another storm on them. 

“He’d made a name for himself,” Jones eventually speaks up again. The pressure of the gun on Harry’s forehead increases minimally, but when he looks closely, he can see that Jones’ knuckles have turned white. “By the time I was assigned to his unit, Cowell had become known for…bending the rules and showing a certain flexibility when it came to producing results. Some took issue with that. Others…not so much. But they felt he had talents that were of more use in a different kind of war.” 

“He took you with him when he got reassigned?” Louis asks.

“Clearly,” Jones replies. 

His voice doesn’t waver, but his jaw clenches and Harry – well. Harry is trying to follow what he’s saying while also digesting the fact that the late Director of SHIELD was an alleged traitor. He’s seen Cowell bend the rules, and be flexible in his approach to a slew of things. But he hadn’t ever really doubted that Cowell was doing all this for the right reasons. Apparently, he’d been a fool for believing that. 

“We did a couple of missions in Central Africa before we got moved to South America. Keep the communists at bay, and all that, I’m sure you’re familiar with them,” he supplies with a wink towards Louis. “A small group of local militia we were working with found the vibranium when they dug around an already operational emerald mine. Didn’t know what it was. But Cowell did.” 

The smile tightens, grows manic. The gun still pressing against Harry’s skull starts shaking minimally, evidence to how tightly Jones is now gripping the gun; how much tension is going through his body looking for a way to be released. Harry tries to keep his breath even. Tries not to move. Jones could be very close to snapping. Louis is pulling information from him he wasn’t willing to give to Harry or Liam, and he’s doing it so easily Harry has to be impressed, but he’s also hoping that Louis won’t accidentally press a button directly tied to the trigger of this gun. 

“And what? You wanted to sell that knowledge to the highest bidder, and he wanted to keep it to himself?” Louis inquires and seems to decide – on a whim – to start poking Jones with a figurative stick. “Must’ve stung. Years of loyalty and devotion and he shut you down without second thought.” 

Jones scoffs. “No,” he shakes his head. “He knew what it was, and he knew what that meant. So he came up with a plan that was only big enough for himself and his ego, and I was a risk he was not willing to take. Years of loyalty and fucking devotion, and in the end, he set up a trap, pulled a few strings, and made sure I’d get sent to prison without trial.” 

His index finger trembles on the trigger. Harry grits his teeth, tries to tell himself that this doesn’t sound like Cowell at all and fails. He can far too easily believe that Cowell had been ruthless on the way to the top, and that he’d stepped on a lot of people during his climb. Only the knowledge that this treasure was buried in the Colombian jungle must have elevated him to new heights, even without sharing it with anyone. Especially without sharing that knowledge with anyone and eliminating anyone who could spoil it for him. 

And suddenly, Harry understands what _La Modelo_ meant. 

Louis hums. “How’d you get out?” 

“I didn’t get out,” Jones replies. His left hand, the one that’s not holding the gun, shoots up to his neck and scratches at the scar like it’s a nervous tic. “I survived. Which, as an American, was no easy feat. They tortured me. They stabbed me. They shot me. And in the end, they slit my throat with a jagged piece of broken metal.” 

Harry hears Liam curse under his breath. He feels his own throat go tight at Jones’ story and he would probably have more capability to empathize with him weren’t he currently holding a gun to his head. 

“When I just wouldn’t die, they gave up. Got a bit spooked. Earned myself a reputation,” Jones tells them. “They started calling me The American. I earned their respect. I earned their loyalty. So when Cowell showed up again, after everything, and acted like he was _saving_ me, like he was allowing me to live because of his mercy –” He breaks off with a choked laugh and for a moment, the gun wavers and his body sways and Harry thinks, now; now is the perfect moment to catch him off guard. 

But he hesitates for a milli-second too long. Jones composes himself too quickly. His arm stabilizes and the gun is right back where it’s been for the past minutes. 

“He probably expected me to be grateful. And in some way, I was. Every hour of every day I spent locked up in that hellhole, I imagined so many scenarios to make him pay for what he did. But even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have come up with what he offered me.” 

“Your expertise and your…way with the locals for your freedom,” Louis is quick to conclude. “Who did he want to sell it to?” 

“Oh, he didn’t want to sell it at all,” Jones replies. “That’s where I came in. Because one of Cowell’s many, many, _many_ flaws is that he always think he’s the smartest person in the room. He thought I’d just do the dirty work and ask for nothing while he became owner of the most lethal arsenal in the world.” 

Doing wrong things for the right reasons, Harry thinks. Apparently, Cowell had betrayed many, but hadn’t been a downright traitor to their cause. It doesn’t make things better, not exactly, but Harry is somewhat relieved he hasn’t been completely blind. 

“How does Malik fit into all of this? Given the state he was in, I figured you have a personal vendetta against him.” When Jones remains silent, Louis goes on. “Or were you jealous?” 

Jones snorts with derision. It pulls his face into an ugly grimace. “Don’t be absurd. Although I do have to confess I wanted to dent his pretty face in, just a little. Cowell always did like them _pretty_ , didn’t he?” he adds with a wink. “But jealous? That would insinuate that I’d thought of him as competition. But as you’ll come to realize – there’s nobody who even comes close to the likes of me.” 

“There are far too many people who’re exactly like you,” Louis counters. “I’ve killed a fair share of them.” 

“Oh, and I’m a big fan of your work, truly. Really, you should come work for me,” Jones offers, leering at Louis in a way that makes Harry taste bile; looking at him like he’s a shiny new toy to break in. “I pay very well.” 

“I don’t do that anymore,” Louis bites back, and every word sounds pained. He’s been hitting a lot of right notes with Jones, getting him worked up, getting information out of him, and for the first time since Louis showed up, Harry is worried that Jones might manage to turn it back on him. 

“You don’t? Strange. I thought Cowell hired you specifically because of that particular set of skills.” 

“Cowell hired him because he saved all our asses,” Liam suddenly interjects, having kept a low profile until now, and Harry has been quite happy with that. Without the protection of his suit, Liam is far too vulnerable. His body is not going to patch itself up with lightning speed. “So shove it, Machiavelli.” 

But Jones doesn’t even look at him. And despite the gun he’s holding to Harry’s head, and all the men who are shifting, nervous, surrounding them – his focus remains on Louis. 

“Is that what you think, Sergeant? Genuinely? That you can switch teams, call it ‘saving’ and hide from your goodie two-shoe pals that deep down –” A deep, stretched-out hum rumbles in his throat. “You still enjoy it. You enjoy it so much, actually, that instead of going for a clean shot like the trained sniper you are…you stretch it out, because you want to savor it.” 

A manic glint to his eyes, sharpening when Louis doesn’t respond. Jones chuckles, lifts his free hand and rubs his chin, pretending to think. 

“I’m sure you just intended to save that runaway agent Cowell sent you after – what? A month ago? Two?” His fingers find the zip of his jacket, and he pulls it down enough to reach inside, and find a phone in one of the inside pockets. The screen’s glow illuminates his face, makes it paler, drags out the shadows. 

“A deserter with too much information, just twenty-six years old. He had a family,” Jones adds, eyes on what Harry assumes to be confidential files, dread starting to spread through his body. “A wife, a daughter. And now little Meredith is going to grow up without a daddy.” 

“Shut up,” Louis grits out this time. 

Jones pockets his phone again. “You didn’t know that, of course. I’m sure Cowell didn’t want to bother you with those pesky details. And you didn’t ask. After all, you know how to follow orders, [солда́т](https://dict.leo.org/russisch-deutsch/%25D1%2581%25D0%25BE%25D0%25BB%25D0%25B4%25D0%25B0%25CC%2581%25D1%2582).” There’s a tell-tale crack that breaks the heavy silence that follows what Jones has just said, and Harry is pretty sure Louis is just a moment away from turning his rifle into dust because he’s gripping it so tight. 

“You could’ve shot the poor bastard,” he goes on, “but you broke his arm, and then you filled the bathtub and held him under water until he stopped twitching.” 

_Oh, fuck_. Harry clenches his eyes shut against an oncoming wave on nausea. 

“As I said. You should come work for me. I could use a bodyguard with no moral compass once I become the wealthiest man in the world.”

“Go to hell,” Louis shoots back, but there’s a tremor in his voice that makes it evident that Jones’ words got to him. 

Harry’s arm is still throbbing and his head is reeling, but he still aches for him and everything that’s happened to him, and what the world has turned him into. And if Cowell weren’t dead – hell, Harry would kill him himself. For this, and for what he asked of Louis even though he knew – he _knew_ – that all Louis wanted, and what he deserved, was peace. 

In retrospect, everything just makes too much damn sense. Cowell being a crooked bastard and going behind everyone’s back, which ended up biting him in the ass, and deservedly so, leaving them with an equally egomaniacal bastard who wasn’t trying to protect the world, but only himself. And Louis amidst the two of them, and used by them both, because it was easy. Because it was convenient. Because they could. 

“Say one more word to him,” he presses out between clenched teeth, “and I’ll gut you.” 

Having spent most of the past minutes fully focused on Louis, Jones’ expression is nearly one of surprise when turns to face Harry. 

“How sweet,” he says. “I’d love to stay and chat with you guys and exchange anecdotes, but I do have a flight to catch, and some buyers to meet. Although, I do have one more question: is it too ostentatious to don a Panama hat when in Panama?” 

_So that’s where he’s meeting the buyers_ , Harry files away in his mind. Unfortunately, Jones may be unhinged, but he’s not a fool. He probably has innumerable ways to funnel all that money coming his way through numerous backchannels and investments to launder it beyond recognition, meaning there won’t be any hard evidence, making it next to impossible to bring him to justice. 

Unless they take justice into their own hands. And that – especially in the light of what Cowell has done – sounds very unsavory to Harry. 

And if he’s not mistaken, whatever Jones plans on selling to presumably billionaire warlords and dictators is currently en route to the international waters just past the Caribbean Sea. 

“Don’t worry,” Liam pipes up, scowling at Jones, “you’ll look like an asshole with or without a hat. And thanks for ticking another box on the list of stupid shit wannabe-super-villains do: revealing the next step of your plan instead of just shutting the fuck up.” 

Jones lets out a snort with an over-exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Mr. Payne, do you think so little of me? Of course I wouldn’t have told you that if there was any chance of you lot getting out of here alive.” 

He quietly laughs to himself, shaking his head, and then the pressure of his gun against Harry’s forehead disappears. 

It happens too sudden for him – or any of them for that matter – to even flinch. Harry hears a shot, and he sees Jones’ manic grin, and for a moment he wonders what the hell just happened. 

“Harry!” The cry reaches his ears only faintly, but it makes him look down at his body and see the blood slowly soaking his shirt, before the pain starts to register. It’s a hot and fiery burn in his lower belly, but it’s spreading quickly. 

“Drop your weapon, Tomlinson,” he hears Jones yell, but his shape has started to flicker. “Or the next bullet will go into his pretty head.” 

It’s the last thing Harry hears before things go horizontal. 

 

 

There are a few things he registers even though he is only semi-conscious. Someone has draped his left arm over their shoulders and is propping him up as he’s dripping blood onto dirt and then dust. The hand gripping his wrist and holding his arm in place is hard and cold. Another hand is pressed to his stomach, applying strong pressure. At first, Harry can’t quite remember how he ended up in this particular situation. It takes a few minutes to trickle down that they’re in Colombia, surrounded by Jones and his men, and that he got shot. 

He can feel the bullet. And while it’s inside him, he can’t heal. 

It’s dark. It’s dark, and unspeakably hot, a smell in the air that Harry can’t place at first, but that tickles a memory in the very back of his mind. It hadn’t been dark then, but equally hot and far too bright, with flames licking at their ankles, a yawning abyss between them, physically separating them in a way they’re separated emotionally now, despite Louis being closer to him than he’s been in weeks. 

However, it doesn’t last long. The support falls away amongst jumbled Spanish, and Harry goes down hard, is dragged across the ground and propped up against a wall that’s far too smooth to belong in a cave. There’s a flicker of light, and suddenly it’s so bright Harry has to close his eyes against it. 

He doesn’t see the chains coming, but he feels them, relentless and unyielding, as they’re tied around his arms, putting even more strain on his battered bones. Harry is sure a pained groan escapes him, but all he hears is the heavy thud of his own heart and the clinking of what he’s sure are restraints made from vibranium to ensure none of them manage to pull free. 

It’s only when he hears a heavy door slam shut and muffled voices that grow quieter and quieter until there’s nothing but echoing silence and the grinding of his own teeth in his ears that he can force himself to open his eyes again. A single lightbulb is dangling from the ceiling of what’s essentially a cell without bars or windows. It’s a shoebox, walls polished metal that Harry prays is anything but vibranium. 

Louis and Liam are chained up against the walls on either side of him, out of reach, surely intentional. There’s blood on the floor; a few bloody handprints on the door Harry’s facing. And the red puddle he’s sitting in keeps growing. Fortunately, Harry has a far higher tolerance regarding blood loss than the average man. But even he is going to run out of it at some point. If the light-headedness is anything to go by – he doesn’t have much longer. 

“Bloody fucking shit,” Liam curses to his left, leaning into his restraints, making them rattle, making him grunt. Even with the Iron Man suit, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. “Why do I feel like this is some terrible, fucked-up déjà-vu with role reversal?” and only when he says it does Harry realize that they’d been in an eerily similar situation not too long ago. Zayn had been the one bleeding all over the floor then. “Please tell me you meant to get shot and that one of you has a couple of aces up his sleeves.” 

“I’m afraid not, Liam,” Harry replies, attempting to keep his breaths slow and shallow to keep the pain at bay, to keep movement to a minimum. 

He turns his gaze to Louis, who appears to not have paid any attention to them, but Harry knows he’s listened, has probably already analyzed the weak spots in this room, come up with a dozen different escape strategies. Louis gets to his feet suddenly, goes right until the chains stop him, which does not take him very far. Methodically, he walks in slow but steady steps, describing a semicircle, occasionally pulling on the vibranium links. 

“How about you, Tomlinson?” Liam addresses him directly. “Working your magic?” 

At first, it seems like Louis is going to ignore him a second time, but after a few more pulls at the chains, after widening his stance and getting into what Harry assumes to be the right position, he turns to Liam. 

“We need to get the bullet out of him, and we need to do it fast,” he says, quiet and composed, utmost concentration written all over his expression. 

“And how do you plan on doing that? We can’t even fucking reach him!”

Louis doesn’t bother replying. Instead, he grips the chains with both hands, and starts pulling. The vibranium creaks and groans and even through his clouded vision, Harry can tell that every single enhanced and artificial muscle in Louis’ body is strained to full capacity. But Harry doesn’t think it’s going to be enough. He has the prosthetic to counteract where HYDRA’s copy of the serum didn’t quite meet the original, but neither he nor Harry can break the strongest material in the damn universe. 

Unless they’re finally allowed to catch a break and the South American vibranium turns out to be slightly weaker than what was found in Central Africa. 

“Louis,” he says and…and he doesn’t want to pass out, can’t pass out, needs to hold on a little longer. “Louis, stop.” 

“Shut up,” Louis bites back, and keeps on pulling. 

“Blunt force won’t work,” Liam stresses. “If this vibranium behaves anything like its African cousin, it will simply absorb any energy you expose it to.” 

Louis pauses, only for a moment. He looks more flushed than Harry has seen him in a while, pouring all his strength into a sheer impossible task but not willing to give up, which is – 

Harry shakes his head with a smile. It’s exactly what Louis would have done before – before HYDRA. It’s another glimpse into the person that is there, slowly coming back, slowly regaining parts of who he used to be. And despite the obvious dilemma they’re in…it kind of makes Harry feel a little more hopeful. 

“Do you have a better fucking idea?” Louis asks Liam, who doesn’t have an answer ready, so Louis goes back to the task at hand, putting his weight into it, adjusting his grip minimally, shifting his stance. 

“Louis,” Harry tries again, “please stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

But it seems like Louis has stopped paying attention to him, and Liam as well, focusing on these chains and focused on channelling whatever he’s got left and maybe it’s that or a combination or everything he’s been through up until this point. But he pulls and he pulls and he starts mumbling to himself, and at first Harry can’t properly hear what he’s saying, has a suspicion that it’s Russian at first and another language in between before he understands what Louis is, probably subconsciously, saying to himself. 

“You’re not fucking dying on my watch,” he says and repeats it two more times, like a mantra and Harry – Harry is back in France, the smell of blood and kerosene in his nose, so strong he can practically taste it. “I let you out of my sight and you get yourself shot.” 

It makes Harry want to laugh, but he’s in a whole fucking lot of pain and he’s not sure he can even manage a smile. But still. 

“Tomlinson,” Liam presses, “it’s not working. We’ve got to –” 

A loud pang cuts him off. It comes so sudden and out of nowhere that even Louis is shock still and turns his head towards the door where it came from. Another loud noise follows, and then another one, like small explosions, like someone throwing grenades, like – 

There’s a knock. Followed by another three in quick succession. 

“Oi!” 

Harry wants to sag with relief, but he physically can’t. Liam looks stunning and Louis – well. Louis looks weirdly annoyed. 

“You lot alive or what?” Niall’s voice creeps through to them. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been more relieved to hear it. “Literally had to follow a trail of blood. Made me feel a bit queasy, to be honest.” 

“You were supposed to leave,” Louis says, with a level of exasperation Harry hasn’t heard from him in a while. 

“Yeah…well,” Niall calls back, probably with a carefree shrug, optimistic despite the pile of shit they’re currently stuck in. “Zayn and I, we kind of had a chat about that. And we decided we’ve got nothing else to lose either.” 

There’s a sound in the lock. Somehow, Harry thinks, that lucky bastard got his hands on some keys. 

The heavy door swings open. Niall steps into their cell with a broad smile on his face. Behind him, Zayn (who looks exactly how Harry feels and is inexplicably still on his feet) leans against the frame, without a smile, but a determined spark in his eyes. 

Louis sighs. “I can’t believe I’m relieved to see you.” 

“Aw, dude,” Niall retorts. “Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love. Watch out, Cap,” he adds with a snort before clapping his hands and catching a weird device Zayn throws him without looking. 

“So. Now that we’re back together, reunited – assembled, for the lack of a better word. How about we get the fuck out of here and kick some serious arse?”

 

 

***

 

_to be continued..._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [la modelo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Modelo) is a real prison in bogotà. don't look it up.
> 
> солда́т: (soldát) m anim (genitive солда́та, nominative plural солда́ты, genitive plural солда́т) - 1. soldier


End file.
